The early morning found us

sitting on your

tattered, burgundy, mattress cover.

Me, focused and writing.

You, scatterbrained and distracted.

You reminded me of our lives at seven.

The contract you made me sign.

A paper that declared:

the puppy mom was finally letting us adopt

was yours and only yours,

that he would be named Snow, no exceptions,

and that he would live in your room

always.

These stories I could never remember fully.

You filled in gaps when needed,

cleared up hazed details.

You always knew where I’d leave off.

 

I wonder if you’d know now.

 

I write your name

with thick fresh sharpie

onto cardboard boxes.

The last heavy load into

the moving truck

which you insist you know

how to drive,

despite your inexperience.

 

Out the window of the truck

you toss me an unfinished

Rubix Cube.

“I’ll be back before you finish it,

Don’t try too hard.”

With a final smirk you drive

to the end of the road.

I walk into the back yard and

find our spot behind the retention pond.

 

I begin with the yellow.