It’s been years since they closed the bridge

You have to cross the canal at Union. Or Third. No subway runs there & if you say where, no cab will go. If you see condos by the water, don’t go in. Hold your breath, dive back a few decades & listen for the note in the middle of the hum at the bottom. If you hear a pack of kids laughing, you’re getting close—keep your distance. Stick to the sidewalk. Slowly walk backward in time until you feel the sun too bright & the pavement too hot & you can’t bandage yourself in words. If you stand still & just let it hurt, really hurt, the house will be there, as it must have been those long days you were always away. Still painted dark red. & there’ll be no trees, anywhere. Two ladies in house dresses will wave & you’ll wave back. & two small girls will run up & hug you at the knees & practically pull you off your feet. Don’t worry. If you disappear as soon as they touch you, they were yours.