WHAT THE SUN SEES When I told you before that had I been swept out before I had the chance to belong to a family, the sun would have an urge to rush upon my face— I wasn't being entirely truthful. Today the sun was behaving as usual, feeding trees and drying ducks, and it said things to me with its light that it remembered having seen. Through the window it saw me young, bathing and splashing rowdily with the neighbor girl. A few years later, it reddened my face as we broke into the concession stand at the empty baseball field and burnt popcorn. The time we called 911 from the park payphone and blamed it on a first-grader, it remembers that, too. It remembers everything it touches. I've kept my curtains shut so many days to be private. It assumes. Brett Elizabeth Jenkins