On our wall, a photo snapped the day
we collected you. Looking over my shoulder
to make sure you were safe. Flash-forward
eight years to this day: heading deep into
the mountains to celebrate a family becoming.
Remember the end-of-day light? The car floating
into our lane? Some part of us remains, lost
on that mountain road—halfway between
home and weekend vacation—shadow family
stranded roadside: homeless, bereft,
picking through the car’s ghost body
for fragments of a stopped life. This, too,
a photo, though no one snapped it.
Nonexistent caption scrawled on windshield.