I was once six years old,

swaying on your rickety porch swing.

We played I Spy for hours,

trying to find something

the other didn’t see.

I look for you everywhere.

I beg the clouds to shape

some sign you’re still here.

I pluck stray hairs from your brush

and make a thousand desperate wishes.

I watch for red birds and butterflies.

I kiss a pack of envelopes

until my lips are cracked and raw.

I let the dogs lick the plates clean,

hoping they’ll reveal

some matriarch Mona Lisa.

I pace at the doorway

to hear your late-night worry.

I search flea markets

for a duplicate collection

of ceramic pigs.

I eat a whole pack of orange crème candies,

pick wild onions,

and promise to spend summers

sustained on tomato sandwiches.

I search for you in the unspoken truths

tucked beneath my rib cage.

I frantically consider going to church.

I know I don’t have to look that far.

I have your wheezing laugh,

your green thumb

(a few shades in the making),

your sweet tooth,

and that crooked big toe

forcing us to round up

half a size in every shoe.

My bones ache like yours,

and my tender heart.