Just So You Know

It's at Renee's this year.

Just so you know.

I read it twice.

Set the phone face-down on the table.

Sat there with my hands in my lap

like someone told to wait.

The word is just.

That's what I keep returning to.

Just so you know—

like I'm being informed

as a courtesy,

the way you'd text a coworker

about a meeting they're not attending.

I was there for the surgery.

I drove four hours for the dog.

I was the one sitting in the waiting room.

But the holidays are decided

somewhere I'm not invited,

and then the outcome arrives

with a period at the end

instead of a question mark.

My hands in my lap.

The phone face-down.

I'll go.

I'll bring something.

I'll say it all looks great.

But tonight I'm trying to figure out

when I agreed to this.

I don't remember agreeing.