The screen door spring expands and and contracts sharply,
announcing Aunt Marilyn with a loud creak.
followed by the echoes of her firm footsteps
tracking dewy blades of grass across the living room floor
Mamar adjusts the bejeweled neckline of her new top from Macy's juniors section.
Pulling it up, then slightly back down again
mimicking the motion of her unwelcoming pencil drawn eyebrow.
The new blouse is a crisp white with wisps of pink swirled at the cuffs.
The adornment on Pop Pop's right cuff is a thick curl of marinara sauce.
The marriage between the two is cringeworthy, but most likely permanent.

At least at this point, anyway..
Marilyn's known the pair since childhood. If you could call it that,
in Brooklyn.
She enters the dining room, positioning herself at Mamar's flank
on the right, of course.

She'd always watched them with adoration
caught up in the sewer system of an urban immigrant romance.
Somehow that ended up in New Jersey.
and came back again for Sunday meatballs and ziti on Long Island,
in newly upholstered chairs

across from me.