Barrettes too small to cope with all that hair,
turquoise winter coat with orange trim,
galoshes with one denim
leg tucked in.
You, in our back yard, just standing there.
Kate, how old are you?” I asked, aware
the question sounded
strange coming from me.
“Nine,” you laughed, as if you’d
a child at play with Saturdays to spare,
there were no future and no past,
as if the miles, and more, had
yet to kill
our sisterhood. I heard the kettle cry,
me this meeting couldn’t last,
and so I memorized your face
I woke, and thirty years went whistling by.