Not Even Past

The oak tree leans where it always did but the rope swing is gone, and the house is dark and cavernous, and windows broken. It’s cold and I’m inside now and the fireplace is empty. I remember Christmas fires, the warmth, my grandmother. I remember learning to read with her in that room as flames leaped and snaped before us, my grandfather at the bellows. Outside the winter grass is green. Blossoms of spring under a clear blue sky. Cool breeze on my wet cheek, two cardinals on a low branch. I kneel, and I pray.