In my heart’s locket, five gangly brown-skinned kids, cousins, will be forever at play in a pair of crepe myrtle trees bathed in beneficent June sunshine. I loved to climb trees as much as Michael. An arm here, a leg there, juts out from the trees’ floral sundress, a delicate skein of pink and purple blooms. When we found unbloomed buds on the dichondra lawn, we would gently press at their nub until the skin slit and a fragile, crinkled blossom emerged whole. Meanwhile, inside the house, through the living room picture window, the adults, beloved, are forever passing their time in glancing, distracted talk.