Only now does it feel like summer: the kids break
out the bubble wands and make iridescent magic
in their front yard. June is almost done,
slinking away like a black cat past mailboxes
at twilight, and I haven’t indulged
nearly enough. June is almost done,
which means it’s almost my grandmother’s birthday.

Born on the fourth of July, my grandmother died
alone in the nursing home three days before
Covid restrictions lifted. Even now, her here-ness
and there-ness are everywhere. At the height
of her dementia, we drove her through town,
underneath the red, white, & blue banners stretched
across streetlights downtown. You did all this
for me? she asked.

I notice the girl and her bubbles,
arms thrown wide, watching
what was so very there one moment
be so very not the next,
disappearing in a wet pop
on the concrete, and I want
to go home. I want to think of something
pretty. Like that summer will never end.
Like that something so delicate
can still go on & on & on.