I bob and weave in the winter-laden street
retracing the hill I climbed each night
to bring on labor.
When I step back and squint
I see the rooms that sheltered us
exposed to raw December.
Pale and clammy, our house has shrunk.
The siding’s gone shabby,
dark blue shutters an afterthought.
Or have I grown Gulliver-like?
Decades ago a hot August day swallowed me whole.
The midwife coxed me open
to admit your blue face
expelling you into light.
Breath flew into the room.
The porch I thought was huge
sits ten feet from a Lilliputian street
not wide enough for two cars to pass
without scraping paint.
I see the neighbor’s drilled holes in his walls,
dun-colored polka dots for blown-in cellulose.
Good, I think. Someone is keeping things up.
Insulation works on memory too.
Our tiny bodies in motion in a past that abides
in the town where we left it.