And I tell her how I brought him there, how we sat in the green paint-chipped chairs around the warped wooden table

while I wore one of Didi’s cashmere V-neck sweaters–maroon–

and on the table was that same paper bag of mini blueberry muffins that Didi picked up from Dinah Lingos that morning, and the bowl of bruised clementines 

and the sandy newspapers splayed across the table 

like placemats, and a clipping Amie saved for me from her pile 

of clippings saved for me,

and the stressed syllables of those words she’s always repeating: gratitude, don’t waste talent, art saves, 

and you know how I hate waste. 

Her long fingernails stained with oil-paint pressing the thick 

buttons on the old blender–

last week’s peaches, watermelon, Strawberry Yoplait, 

and mystery contents of the fridge drawer churning. 

And on the counter the basket of thin-sliced wheat bread, English muffins, and Uncle Tom’s UTZ chips–Old Bay and Salt 

& Vinegar. And outside the rusted latch of the moldy fence, 

the mildew rope of the hammock, the browning blue hydrangeas, the squeak of the hose and the metal handle in the outdoor shower with the 2-1 shampoo that smells like watermelon,

 the pins on the clothesline, those same sunscreen-stained towels hanging

like the way our bare feet dangled on the Paratrooper when we went to the boardwalk

later that night, the rise and fall of my stomach and the turning, turning, on the Teacups.

So you told him you love him? Well, you could’ve led with that.