when you’re fifteen-hundred miles
away from the cerulean marked
home base
on the fading crayon fire escape
map you scribbled in first grade,
when your dad told you
“everyone meets around the trunk
of the pine closest to the stop sign”
and you listened.
Or when he grabbed his
over-sized video camera,
smudged by chubby toddler fingers,
and recorded your first Allegheny flood
that he called a “big-a** cup of coffee,”
taping from left to right
with the occasional Kelsey giggle
and eager hands flying
into the shot.
And don’t forget
when your parents whispered,
“you’re going to be a big sister”
four times
and you dimpled-grinned
until the fifth,
when a baby was not everything
you wanted
and you hid your fragile smile
from mom until Rachel,
wrapped in a white hospital blanket,
gripped your index finger.
When you’re fifteen-hundred miles away
from that shaggy, yellow-brick
two story
with twenty-year-old, faux grass carpet
torn along the cluttered porch,
just remember
sipping iced tea with a slice of lemon
tucked under a heap of ice cubes
because that’s how mom liked it
and you like it too.