The House at 56

She tells me she can see them
the three of them
doing cartwheels on the lawn,
on the patch out front under the window
and hemmed in by a hedge so
if you stood on the sidewalk
you could barely see 
their small heads
and I see it, too,
the crinkled smiles of something
more specific than childhood,
little hands in the dirt that wrap 
around my neck.
Their bright faces mystify me.
I hear their laughter and
I gulp it down like medicine
like air, like memory,
and I wonder what imprints they
will leave on these walls.
I look out this same front window
and realize my heart has memorized
more than I knew,
how time holds all life,
what feels lost is never gone.

-Jennifer Camp