I see the green benches at the table of the old apartment
On Chestnut Street, if my memory serves me right,
I see myself, six or seven, Emma, ten or eleven,
Sitting on the carpeted floor (or maybe it was wooden, I’m not quite sure)
In the living room-where my dad slept when Emma and I took his bedroom on Sundays-
My now-stepmother braiding my hair, the kitchen speaker playing John Mayer
Brady, the lab, in his crate in the bedroom, or playing with his boxer friend downstairs,
and, once, putting his large paws up on the counter to take a whole leftover steak,
and, once, celebrating his birthday with the vanilla cake we decorated
I see the green benches in the photos on my grandfather’s desktop,
Photos of the Sunday night apartment, which became a house on the corner,
With a yard, a trampoline, a tree swing, and a Wawa down the street.