Permanent Record

I was digging for the birth certificate,

moving the plastic bins in the closet,

when the 1998 annual hit the floor.

The spine is cracked, the glue turned to sand.

In the margins of the staff photo,

where the light hits the art teacher’s glasses,

she wrote 'I see you' in blue ballpoint.

The ink skipped on the glossy paper,

leaving a trail of white gaps in the letters.

I sat on the floor for twenty minutes

feeling the cold of the concrete

through the seat of my thin pajamas.