She raises the shade, a sound like a fluttering pulse. On the bedpost, his Dustin Pedroia glove, its leather browned by mink oil. On his desk, the stack of Wii games—Super Mario, Smash Brothers—and the Mac waiting to chime, to brighten. Hanging from a string on the doorframe, the #2 pencil she used to mark each new inch. And on the bureau, the picture of him in profile on his first two-wheeler. She moves it out of the sun’s glare, and there he is: racing down the sidewalk, arms cocked like wings, tow-hair shining. His head thrusts forward, rammed over the handlebars as if as if nothing will stop him—not the tree roots buckling the pavement, not the high curbs or the cross-traffic with its unforgiving cars, not even the picture’s thin frame, through which she knows he will burst any second and continue riding, riding, as if there were no tomorrow...

so low, the last height mark         far peaks lost in mist

Bio: Rich Youmans