The Birthday Party

We dress nicely, but warmly.

I meet you every year, but never know you any better.

If they didn't drive, I'd never know where you are and I'll never ask.

We take sticks and trace their sharp ends into the letters that spell your name,

Carefully scratching out long strings of frozen moss and dirt.

Setting down our verdant offerings, we withdraw to explore the rest of the grounds, pretending to search for more sticks, so that they can be alone with you.

On the way home, I press my cheek against the cool window and wonder what you would be like.