The Last Baby

A hint of dusty summer sun and standing water
(watch out for mosquitoes — extra large in Minnesota),
the smell of my tire swing. A few feet away, in the garage,
my old crib, fully assembled. I was eight years old,
the last baby. When I discovered it one day, and for
several days after, I climbed over the side and in.
I couldn’t have explained why — so it’s a good thing
it never did break. When it was time to sell the house,
I made my parents take down the tire swing.
Some other kid could have my room, but not that.
The crib, we sold. It didn’t need to make the move.
It was time to let it go, my mother said.
Time to let it go. 


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