Remember this:

I grew up in a white house with black shutters.

Two porch swings lined with floral cushions hung opposite one another. My parents told us stories from their childhoods while we swung back and forth.

Beyond the porch were endless woods, and beside the house was a fort my father built—a bright blue tarp stretched across the top.

I remember how everything was arranged.

Stay there.

The swings looked into each other's eyes with a nurturing respect. That is something I wrote about them years later. I was sitting between them. I admired these stories because they were so grand to me (I have kept that word and lost the sound of what was said).

Grand.

I remember listening. I remember being between two things.

Between what?

I remember a house. I gave you its color and something to sit on. The distance between the swings was yours to decide. So was the weather (until I told you it was raining).

What happened to the sunlight you put there?

You can leave it (I won't know).

I could see beyond the porch, but I could not see myself.

Do you see me?

There, you are.

Remember, my father built me a fort beside the house. I thought of it as my castle (the house was theirs). From the porch, the fort was visible. From the fort, I could see the house. There were places I could stand without being seen. Places I could see without being there.

I thought I knew where I stood.

In the background, where did you go?

I was there.

I remember the woods from the porch. I remember the porch from the woods. The trees moved while I stood still (they remember you moving while they stood still). I cannot tell you which of us moved.

Time passed. It passes differently now.

I can go back and check what I wrote. The ink is where I left it (some of it is lighter now). I find something I didn't know I had kept. I find a space where something used to be.

The swings face each other. There is nobody in this sentence.

You put them there.

I was looking at you

You were looking back at me

You may remember the cushions. I haven't mentioned them in a while. Nothing has happened to them (I have simply stopped giving them to you). Do you still see flowers? The fabric was patterned. I remember that. I cannot bring back the pattern by saying it again.

You gave them flowers.

A house. A blue roof.

No—the blue belonged to the fort.

I knew that. I knew the story. I had been there.

Sometimes I find myself looking at someone who has not yet learned what I know. They are still standing where I left them. The light is still touching their face. I want to tell them something, but there is nowhere in the photograph for the information to go.

They never turn around.

I stay a little longer. The way someone stands. The space they leave beside them. The way their hand is held.

Do you see me?

In one picture I remember standing beside them. In another I remember taking the picture. The distance between those two positions is difficult to measure.

I remember where I stood, or I remember standing there, or I remember being between them. I can make a picture of us without including myself. I can watch you look at something I remember (I was there). There were places I could see without being there. I remember the swings facing each other, but I cannot remember who was between them. I want them to turn around. The light does not move. Can you feel me? Do you remember?

I return for information and find a feeling. I return for the feeling. The feeling returns for me. I remember the swings and the room between them, enough room for someone to sit, and I was sitting there or I was looking at someone sitting there, the woods were speaking or my parents were speaking, I watched over something that did not belong to me (something that did not belong to me watched over me).

I remember that.

Or I remember being watched.

I remember the house

You have a house now

I remember the rain (what happened to the sunlight?)

I remember the woods

I remember being between them

Between what?

I remember how everything was arranged

I remember being there

Someone was listening

I was listening

Are you there?

There

You'll be safe here

What color is the house?

I understand this now.