She’s rearranged her room
and proudly invites her father
to admire the work.
It makes up most of her world
on this summer afternoon —
careful placement of
well-worn friends,
books for reading
in the pillowed corner,
a place she has reserved for
hide-and-seek
just behind the bed.
If you lie right there
you can reach the fan, she tells him.
Turn it on, she says —
it smells just like the outside.
Her father looks out the window
as he turns the switch,
the ancient glass curving the view
across the lawn.
It really does, he replies,
tasting in that breath,
just for a moment at
the back of his throat,
the back of his memory,
his own childhood
rearranged room,
just-so and steady.