I remember when two of your friends touched me on the shoulder. One of them was holding a hat in a gloved hand. They said you spoke of me often, that you loved me so much. I was surprised to hear them say it, “love” without pause. I remember the look in their eyes; it looked like sorrow, and I couldn’t thank them by name. Somehow the memory is tinted blue and smells like a handkerchief in a small girl’s satin drawstring purse. Like bubblegum and salt.
I remember how you loved me; I saw it in your hands and see it in mine now. It’s cream like the sofa.
I loved that you were proud of me before I ever knew to be. I wish you were here to hold me now. You’d be thrilled I called, and after you hung up the receiver, you’d smile and rub your earlobe with your thumb.
When I remember us, I remember cake, and how you always halved my slice for yourself. I think you bought me clothes. If you were here, I’d tell you I’m worried.