Three siblings lined up behind the two chairs, dressed
in their Sunday best, in a time when we only had one best
and the rest were clothes for school or for mess.
On the two chairs, the eldest two siblings named after parents,
the two M’s, the eldest female the next male and perched,
newly crowned with a shock of black hair and eyes that stare
without understanding, a six-month-old me, the newest,
surveying his dominion without a care. Seven years pass
and the siblings line up again this time four, me on the end,
not the throne, that place now taken by the youngest
sitting as I once did on the lap of the eldest, staring
as I once did, without a care; my eyes, if you search
behind the curtain of a broad smile, seem certain that
what lies in the years ahead cannot be taken for granted.
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