I didn’t know until we moved away
that we not related in any way
but Aunt Minny and Uncle Breezy
would call me their little prince
and give me tangerines and let me make
the snow fall in the glass figurines
lined up on the shelves of their cottage
three houses up on Jones Street.
I’d watch for Uncle Breezy to bring
Aunt Minny home from work and race
out to catch a ride on the running board
of his ’47 Ford and hold on as he turned
into his drive and parked in his garage.
Though I don’t remember their faces
I can still see the narrow slats
of afternoon light that streamed
onto the floor of that dark place.