I've watched you walk home one hundred ways.
With bowed legs, you crossed the bridge from
West Virginia to Ohio. You swaggered. I sat
In the car. The breeze blew; the bridge swayed.

I thought your swagger made the bridge sway,
made the breeze blow. I was five years old
at the other end. Terrified, I made Mother wait.
Still, it was my favorite of the hundred ways.

I was five years old at the other end. I wanted time
to waste. I measured the distance you had to travel
with my fingers. I closed the gap with my thumb
and made a cradle of my hand. I was five

at the other end. I tried to sing the nursery
rhyme with a happy ending but slipped into admitting
the fall. When the breeze blew, I wished your body into
an arrow speeding toward me.

The breeze rocked the bridge to sleep. You swayed
like a feather.