in fall, the year you grew to be six feetnni tempered my fear in to haste,nna worry that dogged our mother.nnshe, the baby of three, asked hownnso many things could take flight at once.nnthere are no easy answers, and even at thirteen, inncould not think of a sure reply.nnat the church where i was baptized,nnour father refused to park neat the crowdnnat that time, i still believed in god, or faeries;nnor that the air could catch on fire.nnwhen you and your friends took off on seperate routes,nni wanted to follow you.nnbut our mother said i was not allowed to.nnyou had not yet learned how to fill such a broad frame.nnthat winter you said you hated your body,nnbut when spring came, you learned how to speak,nnand you moved out westnnto watch the ocean eat the coast away.nnnni can still remember that day you left,nnthoughts spilling out from my chest,nnlike who will you be when you come backnnor even, will you come back?