The thing about it is its size.
It’s smaller, and your sister is there
on the other side of the screen, waiting
to be told goodbye. It’s not as if you could
hop on your bike and rush back to hug her,
although that might enlarge the moment.
Instead, the memory keeps shrinking,
blinking off and on like fireflies
she used to catch in a jar.

Their pale light receded
as you rode past your father
watering the brittle grass
full of the ends of other lives.

Beyond that extinguished light,
the memory of light;
and behind that,
the sound of your sister
pushing through the screen,
twisting open the jar.

Cheryl Snell

If you have any comments on this poem, Cheryl Snell  would like to hear from you.

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