A postcard

Seven years ago,
You saw the first green glimmer of an exit sign.

And you sprinted,
Tumbling down the stairs just outside the door,
Escaping the smoke, sure, escaping the fire,
Exchanging chronic coughing fits for a kaleidoscope of concussions,
Bursting before your eyes like stars.

And there was no instinct to catch yourself,
Grab the railing,
Brace your arms against the steel,
You saw only the vision of an exit sign,
And all that it promised.

And you were happy to have forearms,
Painted like watercolors,
Happy for the swelling in your brain,
Happy for the memories to loosen,
Nailed down for so many years,
You were happy for the change.