A Day in St. Louis by Yvonne Garcia

Your father took me to the house
where you were once a child.
I stood looking out your old bedroom window
at a field now filled with weeds.

I don't recall much about the other rooms
the ones your brothers slept and grew in.

The entire day blurs together,
the meaningless becoming pregnant
with the profound.
...waking to a family I had finally met
fewer than 12 hours earlier, to discover
my grandfather eats in equilibrium,
the last bite a reflection of the entire meal.
My uncle Keith devours knowledge
instantly becoming a book-read expert
who can intuit what isn't printed.
My quirks reflected back to me.

...driving by the other house that held you
while you became a teenager,
the house where you discovered
that your mistake was growing
inside of you. Your shame
and your mother driving you
from there to Arizona,
to your grandmother's.
I imagine you after my birth,
whispering your hellos and goodbyes
with one small breath
as your life became your own again.

...sitting in the drawing room
your father's arm around me
while we flipped backwards in time
with each photo album.
holding the portrait of three generations,
your grandmother standing
behind your mother
your mother standing behind you.
the three women who kept me
out of the picture.

But the one moment
etched into me
haunting me
never fading

the moment
I held you
the white paper
still covering
the wooden urn
the weight
of you
in my hands.