Timothy Brzescinski

“When We Trade Places”

For Charlotte

You were small but never timid—
a black blur of bark and bravery,
queen of the porch patrol,
with eyes that dared the world to laugh.

I still remember the bush incident—
how you leapt like a myth,
slipped,
and rolled out of the leaves
like nothing could break you.
(And nothing ever did.)

That old apartment,
the cigarettes,
the porch light humming—
those were our early years,
when everything was uncertain
except you.

When Dana and I drifted,
I lost two great loves.
But you were still out there,
licking someone’s toes
after a bark that said, I remember you.

Now they tell me you’re gone—
but I don’t believe them.
Not fully.
Because I know what death is.
Not an ending. Just a door.

And maybe next time,
you’ll be my mother,
and I’ll be the tiny one,
curled at your feet,
learning the world through your eyes.

Or maybe we’ll meet in a field
that smells like porch ash and wildflowers,
and you’ll leap into my arms
without slipping this time.

Wherever you are—
I’ll find you again.
Because souls like ours
don’t say goodbye.
We just trade places.

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