On our fourth date we bought a trailer park outside of town, called Rip Van Winkle's Retreat. In the morning we started to straighten up the tuck shop. We put new machines in the laundromat, next, and you were worried about the kids who ran around the abandoned outbuildings. There were broken bottles in the tall grasses and I would walk the big line trimmer out there, every few days, to keep it clear and to knock down the weeds. It was hot then in July but you made biscuits with breakfast. I stopped wearing shirts completely, and, like this, the summer rolled out.
I remember that you asked me if we were taking things too quickly but it was hard for me to tell. I still had the porch to fix and in the afternoon you talked to your mother on the phone while you counted out clear glass jars. And then I watched you set them in rows, in front of fruit cartons, while you stood at the kitchen counter.