When I think of her

I think of summer.

I think of her

At the side of the pool,

A Marlboro between her

Dark, leathery fingers,

And a glass of vodka

Lifted

To her red-orange lips.

I think of her silver convertible

With me,

Still too young,

In the passenger seat.

I think of the wind in our hair,

Our careless screams,

And the way the hot,

Black, leather seats

Would burn the backs

Of our sticky thighs.

I think of how

She rose before the sun,

Her scarlet-painted toes

Touching the floor at

Three o’clock every morning.

I think of the music

Of her early morning

Soap operas

Carrying through

The early hours

As dawn revived the color

Of the dark sky.

When I think of her

I think of her voice—

Raspy, loud, and joyous.

I think of her

Choppy cackle

At our summer barbeques

As the blazing sun set,

Eternally silhouetting her.