Your name on the mortgage, my frames on the wall.

Your tools and time building cedar raised beds, my pole beans vining up day by day by day.

White windowed envelopes arriving each month for you, my chosen emoji sent via Venmo - a brick bungalow with a tree in the front yard.

You taught me how to mow the grass. I told you where we kept the can opener and cold medicine.

It was always ours, you said, when recounting our latest projects or detailing our move to a new state.

Ours even when my self doubt crept in and shouted, “Not mine, not really.”

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