I wanted you to be there too.
In the dark winter streets with the candles in the windows and the ice on the lamps and the still still still of the empty stones.
We were shooting jars of beans and crouching low against the wind and my child-fingers left cold marks on your arm.
We filled our cups of tea too full and laughed in side-long ways with drowning eyes, and I hoped it was not enough for you.
I have these muffled daguerreotypes of old dolls and little girls in long black dresses. There is a mourning pouch and a gold watch and a grandfather clock that no longer works. I told you about the ring. I don’t know how it escaped with the war-torn children.
I want to tell you of these things I know for sure,
and this bursting spot of pride,
and the ring-lines made for washing.