Sitting on the front door step,
shirt sleeves rolled unevenly to your elbows,
you peel cooking apples with a paring knife
long slices of skin pooling at your feet.
You used to whistle with blades of grass,
palms cupped around a delicate green
as if you held a secret between your hands.
Sometimes, I almost thought your breath
could tempt petals from your fingertips,
daisies unfurling, falling at your feet.
Later, I picked them from between the roots
of the oak tree and wove them into necklaces.
You laughed as I looped yours around your neck,
my hands lingering at the collar of your shirt.
I ducked away from your kiss, your breathy
laugh teasing the hair at my temple.
I smoothed that concentrated furrow
between your eyebrows with my index finger
as you lay back in the grass,
looking so much the romantic lead
in some tear-jerking book-to-film adaptation.
That is how I remember you.