I remember the sway of paper boats in the tub, their short lived buoyancy seems fragile now.

The hair dye my mother uses, gets a shade of brown lighter each year when more of her hairline begins to whiten.

My father’s light brown irises float in a sea of sclera; they look deeper.

My brother files my nails trying to prep them to classical guitar standards  and makes me sing scales with him. I’m always flat; it makes us laugh.

I sit on the porch steps writing poetry– tearing the unsuccessful ones out and folding them into airplanes; how far will they fly?

(Noon goes, and despite the cyclical rotation of the earth when I close my eyes I feel grounded; how can a second feel so infinite? )