What We Think We Know

When my daughter turns three
it rains for the first time in months,
and she walks off the porch and lies
on the grass. Soaked in minutes she
declares herself a swimmer.

June has no memory of this,
she remembers the party we had earlier that day,
the way our neighbor hoisted her
high in the air and ran around the room.

But she likes the story we tell her
of the porch better than the memory,
we tell her it again and again.

When she grows up, our memory of this
may become her memory.

The grass wet, her body beaded with rain.

Caitlin Thomson’s work has appeared in numerous anthologies and literary journals including: The Penn Review, The Moth, Barrow Street, Wraparound South, and Radar Poetry. You can learn more about her writing at caitlinthomson.com