It’s pouring. Mom’s pregnant again, on bed rest.
Kindergarten and first grade.
We’re allowed to walk to school. Alone.
He says he watched us from the window.
Leave the house in our yellow slickers.
Cross the street. Turn right. Holding hands.
He’s brought this memory up so many times—
My big brother. Me. Yellow slickers.
Crossing. Turning right. Holding hands—
that I can see us crossing, turning right,
holding hands, yellow slickers.
Does that make his memory mine?
