It's your birthday.
Twenty-five today.
We gather at your house
on the street we lived on
in your parents' kitchen.
There's different tile now.
The scent from new leather
couches hovers everywhere.
Katie, your dog, is getting old,
no longer chasing squirrels.
Your dad survived a similar
accident and stopped drinking;
swears you appeared upon impact.
Almost five years now.
We no longer tell old stories,
somehow more uncomfortable
with time. Tonight, your face
is in your father's.
It was good to hear him
say your name.
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