Once, we watched a boy walk into the sun.

He had walked past our house, down the road that curved

into the horizon. The past is a home

of flaming corridors; doors billow ash south

through north. Still faces littered our corridor.

Tales from the school-day, wrapped in loud pecks, burst

open on my mother’s cheeks. I wrapped a lie,

squinted into the distance to hold my line.

Into the distance, our group of five dwindled.

Memory was a seedling my father sowed.

His memory grew by our bedroom window.

I blinked once and he was a black dot chasing

the sun. I blinked twice and he was no more

from where we stood, watching the boy walk the sun.