Kathy Mangan

You could whistle me home from anywhere in the neighborhood; avenues away, I’d pick out your clear, alternating pair of notes, the signal to quit my child’s play and run back to our house for supper, or a Saturday trip to the hardware store. Unthrottled, wavering in the upper reaches, your trilled summons traveled farther than our few blocks. I’ve learned too, how your heart’s radius extends, though its beat has stopped. Still, some days a sudden fear darts through me, whether it’s my own city street I hurry across, or at a corner in an unknown town: the high, vacant air arrests me—where’s home?