make a left on lawrence

you have
hand written directions
to her house
on a slip of paper.
the house she lived in
with her parents,
her sister
and three brothers.
it's the house you threw
pebbles at the window
to make her come
out. beeped the horn
when you pulled up
to go out.
she drew a map,
naming each road,
with arrows pointing
where to go,
pressing down
to write her number
with a pen she borrowed
from a bartender.
it was
thirty five years ago
and it's still in your wallet
for some strange
reason. it's folded neatly
into a square.
when you see her now,
out and about with her
grown children,
her most recent husband,
everyone older,
we wave, we say hello,
but that's the end
of it.