You said you loved music, so I spent my money on CDs, stole my Dad’s guitar and brought up Pure Prairie League every chance I got. I scribbled lyrics on my fingers, and concert dates on my mirror.
You said you loved America, so I hummed the National Anthem, wrapped my hair in a striped bandana and learned to see my backyard as a privilege. I told people I was Republican, and refused to get on a plane.
You said you loved art, so I practiced gasping at Monet, considered
getting a tattoo, and kept a sketchbook in my purse. I learned when to say “Impressionism,” and filled my vase with paintbrushes.
You said you loved Jesus, so I buttoned my shirt to the neck, stopped drinking so much and squeezed your hand during the sermon. I remembered to say “gosh,” and threaded a cross onto my necklace.
You said you loved me, so I wore pink, tried to smile more and kept
repeating that I loved you too.