In fall, the year you grew to be six feet
I tempered my fear into haste
A worry that dogged our mother

She, the baby of three, asked how
So many things could take flight at once

There are no easy answers, and even at thirteen, I
Could not think of a sure reply

At the church where I was baptized
Our father refused to park near the crowd
At that time, I still believed in God, or faeries
Or that the air could catch on fire

When you and your friends took off on separate routes
I wanted to follow you
But our mother said I was not allowed to

You had not yet learned how to fill such a broad frame

That winter you said you hated your body
But when spring came, you'd learned how to speak
And you moved out west
To watch the ocean eat the coast away

I can still remember that day you left

Thoughts spilling out from my chest

Like, "Who will you be when you come back"

Or even, "Will you come back?"