Beyond thin office wall

two voices stop me

as I unfold the futon. I almost see them:

in jeans and backwards baseball cap,

honey-hued Rita, her shy, gap-toothed smile;

and Lynn, slender, chiseled face, at 17 a mother,

herself unmothered foster kid.

A week ago – on New Year’s Eve –

Rita turned 21.

No talk of resolutions, but a cake,

a pink and white confection Lynn had bought,

one side damaged on its ride

to shelter in the stroller.

I smoothed the icing best I could

and found three candles.

“Two plus one make 21,” we giggled.

By chance tonight I eavesdrop.

Remembering why they’re here,

I crave to know what new beginnings bring.

In the next room Rita’s gentle voice recalls,

“He says, ‘Think about the good times, not the bad.’”

I hold my breath.

Over Lynn’s wistful sigh, Rita’s tone has steel in it.

“I say, ‘I got to think about the bad.’”

I turn out the light, wait sleep, and pray.