"Each house was maybe the size of our kitchen."

They come back like men who have seen the world. 
You can see it in their eyes, the reflections of every scene, every second, blurred together into one, swimming weight.  Their eyes hold more than their mouths tell; their words hold more than my ears can drink... and in their silences, I know they are swimming back, back to the weight, the sight, the sound.

Each sentence is spoken like a story book, opened to me for just a glimpse, yet snatched away before my own eyes are able to focus on the sight. 
These are the ones who see the things I long to. 

"Each house was maybe the size of our kitchen."
My brother's words echo through my head.  Back and forth, back and forth, the sentence attacks my walls of thought, ringing against every structure of consciousness, as though looking for a way out.  
There is no release for it.

These are the sentences I will carry, locked up in my bones, until my eyes, too, can see the faces,
and until my ears, too, can hear the sound, the sound of the world. 

Do not forget the weight of what you have seen;
do not forget the weight of what you have yet to see.