running out justwrite

Run out of my shoes and leave them behind so I'll find them one day on a barefoot walk by the farm and wonder why they left, then find you sitting cross-legged in the brush with dirty toes, your palms against your forehead, your chin touching your chest. You'll tell me your heartbeat feels different, and I'll hold you in my arms and murmur lullabies that smell like lavender until the old rooster falls down in the yard and all I can think of is my grandfather weeping. I can't picture his face, but I memorized the poem he sent on a postcard of a field of flowers I couldn't name. He looks like my father, my father with his eyebrows bent in concentration, shirtless and sweating by the porch in July, measuring wood. I don't remember what he built. He built everything. My hands weave string into blankets, make scarves with pockets at the ends, but can't frame doors or refinish windows. I tell you I'd keep everyone warm if I could, and the wind picks up both of us and carries you east and me south. You're smiling, waving goodbye, and I'm halfway across the ocean before I notice how cold my feet are, and I wonder if you have my shoes. Three months later, I'm in the living room with my mother and she's telling me the story of my birth. She always skips the labor and says the word "happy" a lot, her eyes full of tears, the corners of her mouth turned down. I want to hold her hands in mine, but I don't want her to see they fit. I slip her bare feet into my hands and rub them, wishing I could remember.