Endless Capacity

Endless Capacity

My face presses against the front room window,
a small oval of humid breath evaporating into the Colorado air—
the cool pane a means of both constriction and consolation.

A Tear trail cleanses my rounded cheeks
of the dirt of our summer—
dirt of freeze tag and jungle gyms
and magic potions made of red berries
and lava rocks turned into imaginary fires
and bikes ridden around and around and around in the cul-de-sac—
the dirt of childhood.

A Gash has intruded upon the upper left corner of my right eye,
severing my flesh.
The blood starts to congeal, but first leaks
from under the animation-adorned band-aid
into my shimmering eye—
now quite patriotic in red, white, and blue,
but a month too late for celebration.

The swelling just barely obscures my vision,
but squinting and stretching
I conjure a face behind a pane of its own,
fading in and out of view.

A car,
a bicycle,
a mother pushing a stroller.

But the Face is still there.
More angular than mine,
framed with blond, not brunette.
I know already at six that she will be prettier than me.

I recall her having said that.

Her forehead presses against her window,
her Hand now empty.

I lift my hand—the right one—and place it on the cool glass.

Her lips turn up.

I smile.

Evidence of the
the undeserved forgiveness of a
Child.

--Adria M. Hohman