My first memory

memories of mine

I am maybe three years old,
standing in the entryway of a house
my parents live in,
a house that doesn’t yet know
what’s coming.

Orange‑tinted, opaque glass
frames the front door,
and afternoon sun
pours itself through,
turning the hallway
into a warm, breathing lantern
for a life that hasn’t broken yet.

I take two, maybe three steps
into my mother’s arms.

For a moment
there is no past,
no future,
no damage circling overhead,
no recovery waiting with its needles
and numbered days.

I am just human,
living life
for the first time,

and the terrible beauty is
I have no idea
how rare
this kind of light will be.