After that we don’t say anything
for a good long while.
I think I understand now why
Mr. Langley wanted to paint this building
with a memory that was better
than the one it hid inside.
Come with me, Mr. Langley says,
and he’s on his feet, heading out
to a field behind the building.
It’s a whole field of blue and red flowers,
their faces turned up toward the sun.
After he died, I used to come out here
and rest with the flowers, Mr. Langley says.
He loved the Indian paintbrushes best.
He lies down on his back, and I do, too,
and then we’re staring at the sky
through the petals of glowing flowers,
and I can’t explain it, but it feels like
they’re telling me something.
Mr. Langley looks at me,
like he understands. He smiles
and says, This is hope, and I feel
the warmth of his words reach
all the way to my toes.