June. White flowers bloomed
on the bushes. Through evening’s yellow light,
I pushed a stroller over cracked
sidewalks. My scar tugged my stomach.
In those early days, the baby liked contrast:
my face against sky. He stared up at me,
and I paced the platform and waited
for the train to round the curve.
Silver cars chugged into view. I used to ride
the train. I’d close my book, sway
into the aisle, and wait for the engine to sigh
to a stop. Now, my husband stepped down,
his shoulders slumped. June, and everything
was new to the three of us. Walking home,
we paused to hold a firefly to the baby’s face
but he couldn’t see the tiny light.