If my great uncle not been at bat in the field of the Little League World Series by a twelve-year-old boy whose mother
had a cottage up above the hill in Williamsport Pennsylvannia
to raise her eight sons and five daughters in the thirties
and see them all disperse across the United States
as she watched her husband grapple with gang green and if his doctor
whom eventually amputated the festering leg had not given a lethal dose to their grandmother
whom quilted and left a wealth of worldly possessions had not had a friend lawyer
and if my aunt hadn't squabbled with each greedy grandchild
as they hired their own representation across a busy intersection of drug deals
down the street from law firms where my cousin Sean bought
and if his sister had not gone to the church where my mother and her sister were baptized
where they learned a belief system from a man who murdered his wife
down the street in an alley and if that alley was not a playground with a see-saw
my uncle's buddy crafted with one normal looking eye and the other with a cat's pupil
from a bb gun bullet shot by a neighborhood friend who joined the Air Force
with no intentions of re-enlisting and if he had not stayed active duty
and moved to North Carolina where he spent time at the beach
so he could relax and if he had not stepped on my father buried
beneath the sand in Hawaiian trunks and showed him my family's photo album
I would not have found myself removed from rays of sunshine eight months
out of the year and if the bitterness of winter kept me
inside the depths of my heated house looking up at the eighties starburst ceiling
accompanied by the warmth of a glowing fireplace
I would not have seen the glimmers of the aurora borealis
or the sparkle or shadow of snow
in Alaska
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