I left the card on the table for three days

I left the card on the table for three days,

propped against the fruit bowl,

the envelope already licked shut

and then torn back open

because I couldn't find anything to write

besides his name.

Eli.

Eight years ago he was seven,

sitting in the back seat eating those crackers

that leave orange dust on everything,

and I was driving somewhere I've since forgotten,

and he asked about camping

and I said yes, before you start middle school—

the way you say things into a windshield

without feeling the weight of them.

He starts tenth grade in September.

The pen keeps ending up back in my pocket.

The oranges in the bowl have started going soft

at the bottom. I can smell it from the table—

that sweetness that means

another day, maybe two, and then you've lost them.

I don't know what you write

to someone who grew up

in the exact years

it took you to mean something.