From uptown, I ride the back seat of my car
On this nostalgic road where children play.
They shout. I wave.
The letter says you have not moved since father passed.
“You were no longer family since you robbed us and ran away to New York.”
I find your door. A small boy guards you and the threshold
While we talk, you let me stay not for the hour.
The boy he asks my name. “I am your Auntie Brigh.”
“You were no longer family since you robbed us and ran away to New York.”
“I’m alone. I need my family. That’s why I packed up and ran away from New York.”

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