What is contained in those years prefacing our story? Memory is a fickle thing- Pieces of mine have been left in storm drains and deep closets Give me what you can- the frayed shoelaces from fifth grade and clip on ties from homecoming dances We can trade these like baseball cards- the patch of woods behind my childhood home for when you learned how to ride a bike Could you spare the day you knew your mom would leave? You can have the time I realized silence is tangible when you want company- it rests heavy on your chest as you sit alone at the table . I take what we've traded and tuck it between my floorboards, in the panels of my walls, in my window frame What was contained in those years before us is safe in my woodwork as you gift it to me And the years to come will hold pieces of me