My Uncle John once talked his way into a hotel suite.
Told the staff he had a young guest who needed to see how the other half lived.
I was twelve.
I remember the carpet.
How thick it felt between my toes.
How quiet it was.
He took me to the movies too.
Whatever I wanted to see.
—
I never told him what that meant to me.
I hope he guessed.
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Remy is eighteen months old.
We sit on the floor most days.
Cars, blocks, whatever’s within reach.
He looks at me.
Then goes back to what he’s doing.
—
I won’t remember most of this.
He definitely won’t.
—
I wonder what stays.