I sit on Charlie’s bed.
Charlie stares out her window,
into the backyard where Milo
used to play. The sun
colors her hair orange,
and the blinds turn
her face zebra.
I told you, she says.
They love each other.
I’m still trying to process
what I’ve seen, but I know
enough to know she’s right.
Why can’t they just
marry each other, then? I say.
I reckon because she’s white
and he’s black, Charlie says.
People don’t like that sort of thing.
Charlie turns to me.
But that doesn’t mean
they won’t get married.
She’s smiling.
Charlie’s window, and I can feel
their warmth from the top of my head
all the way to my toes.