I hear your green glider squeak

I feel your foot push it back and forth on the porch

I see the sun shining on your toes,

painted with bright pink polish

I smell the sand clinging to your wet denim jeans

I taste your collard greens

I taste the fried okra your sweet H made in the kitchen

I smell that oxygen mask you needed for that smelly

Boot Camp

I see your trunk staring with eyes wide open

I feel the splash of the waves around your ankles

Most of all I hear your voice through that email:

{I’m whispering here} will you write a book?