I remember some umbrellas had lights. Reflective beads.
How we had to wind the handles hard to open them up.
How every time we forgot to roll them down, an accidental
wind would have its way. I remember the years wicker held
us in softer lines, and the time your sister Mary came &said
our place made her feel like nothing bad could ever happen.
I remember the dove and her babies. Your strawberries.
Dancing on the concrete in my suit like I was 4 instead
of 40 to that new song about sunshine, or maybe a house.
I remember hanging curtains, because you wanted shade,
&unfolding a rug which the dog chewed-up on one end, just
like she did to the underside of my hammock’s striped sling.
I remember sunscreen, hair bands, safety gates, squabbles,
and timeouts. Tossing the girls goldfish into their mouths
like they were water creatures or mermaids. I remember that
popcorn drizzled with peanut butter&honey tastes better melted
in the sun. I remember Marco Polo pauses, reflective small voices,
that April’s always too soon to go swimming, that ice never lasts.