The Year Before They Needed Room for Me

My brother sent the photo to the group—

Christmas, the year before I was born.

Everyone arranged in a loop.

I count: four.

My mother. Both brothers. My sister,

mid-laugh. To the right: just floor.

Just carpet. Nothing sinister.

The room has what it needs. No more.

I know that spot. I've stood

in that exact place a hundred times,

know the shelf behind it, the good

specific green of those old bulbs. But sometimes

I look at the carpet in this shot

and it's just carpet—not a before,

not a held space. Just the thought

nobody had yet. Just the floor.