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.