Maps

Attic dust.

A box of photographs.

They stood,

straight and tall,

against a sky

that seemed to hold them.

Giants.

My father’s hands

were shovels.

My mother’s laugh,

a bell tower.

Now the armchair

they sat in,

the one I’m clearing,

looks too big.

Like it’s waiting

for someone

who won’t come back.

The maps they used

to chart our days

are folded small.