(for Sue and Donna)

Two of us were born to my mother,
the other, next door best friend, to another mother,
who is now gone, but who was part of the village

that raised us all, we three aware of time
not so much passing as disappearing on a poof
of cloud scudding across hazy summer sky.

I cannot imagine my childhood without either of them,
me bookended by the tall one eight months older
and the blonde one younger by two years

and three months—each of those months counting
hugely when we were girls to advance us further
into the world, farther from the lakeside circle

where we grew. As neighbors, as Scouts, as band
mates, as carpool buddies—our mothers in bridge
foursomes, who drove the carpools and schlepped

kids miles into town, who fed us and kept us
clothed and nudged us to practice our instruments
and came to every band concert. Who made us

believe that we could do anything, be anything
we wanted. And we did. We are, each of us
60-somethings, so far from our 8- and 6-year-old

selves who met when one set of parents set
us down next door to the other, and three girls
met, one of them a solo act, probably never

dreaming she’d end up part of a trio, just as
the duet never imagined a third. But here
we are, my dears. Here we so blessedly are.