Spring Evening After Ice Cream

Your silhouette in the truck ahead of me, Chevy S10, the part in your hair, left arm out the window, the freckles, veins I can’t see from this far back, but feel in memory, as familiar as the staircase banister of my childhood home. Your grandpa had muscly arms even at 80. We fell in love talking about our grandparents. I’ll love your muscly arms at 80. We talk this way. I’m jealous of your sister, that she grew up with you. You say that’s not weird. You understand. In the park you outline the curve of the hillside, tree limbs hang like a lampshade over our bench. The oil paint smell of your palette mixes with cut grass, spring time, the smell of your neck.