I've walked this block for two years

I've walked this block for two years.

Same cracked slate, same gap

where a tree root lifted the corner,

same gray.

Today I stopped at the section

I always pass.

A kid's name in block letters.

A handprint beside it.

June 1997.

The hand is small.

Five fingers spread in the wet concrete

of a Tuesday afternoon in 1997,

when someone said

go ahead, put your hand in it,

it'll be there forever.

It's there.

There's a crack running through

the middle of the palm.

Not through the name.

Just the palm.

Right through the center of it.

Whoever this is,

they're probably in their late thirties now.

Walking somewhere with that same hand

grown into a different size,

not thinking about the afternoon

when the concrete was soft

and someone told them to press in.

I crouched down and looked at it

for longer than made sense.

The morning kept going without me.

The name in the stone.

The crack through the palm.

The date.