they ask what she remembers.
she tries and she can remember trees.
the dogwood tree,
she remembers driving back to that old house and
that tree being gone.
she remembers roofs. black tarred shingles.
she remembers how the leaves looked from above.
the overwhelming urge to jump to, slip off the edge.
she remembers wondering what would happen when her body hit the ground.
the insatiable length of space between gutter and grass,
that drop, she remembered the pull.
it led her up the stairs and over the ledge, out the window.
the crack of collarbone, snap of spine. she remembers
imagining herself light as air, floating down, parachute-like.
she remembers her baby brother crying,
her father’s strong grip on her arm,
yanking her from the fall.
they ask her what she remembers.
all she says is,
it’s never about death.