I remember the day
I found out my grandfather loved me.
I read his memoir while sitting in the four
bedroom apartment alone.
Out the open window, children played
red light green light with a grown woman.
She drank from a red solo cup and laughed
with the abandon of someone caring
for children who weren’t her own.
I was homeschooled and I can’t tell the age
of different children, but some tripped over
their tiny feet
and some ran gracefully.
My grandfather wrote his memoir for his family
and wrote my name specifically.
He has memories with my cousins
and I have memories with the kids across the street.
The woman- dreads to her waist and confidence through her chest-
screamed RED LIGHT
and turned to me. I was on the second story of an apartment complex hidden
behind a suspiciously placed wooden fence.
DID THEY MOVE?
she asked, and I feel suddenly loved.
I yelled back, and
she knew me better
than my grandfather did.