I still go there, sometimes,

on biting winter mornings.

The wood is rotted now,

even more than when it broke,

and when it broke us.

An ethereal haze surrounds

the sun-scorched wood

and crumbled, twisted ruins.

It had always stood there, obsolete,

yet historic enough that no one wanted to tear it down.

It’s done enough tearing of its own, now.

It was that summer that won’t end, anymore,

and it was a lazy, lazy afternoon,

and you were three.

We were napping,

some of us inside the house,

and some of us outside, basking in the oppressive heat

that threatens to silence.

You slipped out the screen door

and ran down out gravel path

sandals flapping.

I’m sure the place was alive once,

but it held mystery in its dusty joints.

You always loved mysteries.

We don’t know how long you explored,

but we all heard the groaning of weight that seemed to last forever,

and then we all heard the earth shattering crash

as the structure collapsed,

settling its bones on the ground,

and taking you with it.

You were three.

And you will always be three,

in our memories at least,

and that summer will never die,

though it might fade.

It might become a little blurred around the edges,

and a little dusty,

bowed under the weight of years,

like the beams now scattered in that gaping hole.

Sometimes I still forget,

and begin telling people about my sister,

and when I realize that you’re gone,

it feels like the beams all fell on me,

instead of you.

They should have.

But I will always remember that

aching summer day,

just like you will always be three.