Sometimes when I climb the stairs
at night to check on the kids
I almost expect to see

myself standing at the top,
a child once again, my hands
soft and small, wrists reaching out

from beyond unmended cloth,
one of my dad’s flannel shirts
covering me like a robe.

I want to be held, cradled
in song, carried to my room
rubbing sleep away with fists.

I don’t know why I’m surprised
when my eye only catches
a slight glare of the hall light

reflecting off a portrait
that looks nothing like me now,
full head of hair, sawdust blonde,

no wire frames or black stubble
on cheeks, just a palimpsest   
that shrinks further and further
away the closer I get.