I will tell you to love your grandmother better. I will tell you to call her every Sunday, to visit more often, to not just say “I love you too,” but instead, “I love you first.” “I loved you before you even thought about telling me that you loved me today. I don’t just love you back, I love you at the front of my brain; I love you from Montana to Maine. I love you at the beginning and I love you last and there’s love in the middle, and I know it’s a grandmother’s job to love so much, but I’ll make it mine to love even more.”

I will tell you to love your lungs better. To open them up, unroll them like kite string - fishing line - cinnamon floss. Breathe better. Go to yoga, or don’t go to yoga. Hate yoga. Remember to breathe anyway. Don’t stay with anyone whose words sit on your chest. The first time I caught a fish I watched it fill up with air, and up, and up, and up, and I was letting out the spool. I was letting it go. Learn to let things go for the sake of your lungs. Say, “I love you” and feel yourself fill up with air, and up, and up, and up, and let out the spool.

I will tell you to love learning better. To love your lawn better. To learn about the lot of it all, so you can love it more wholly; to love a lawn is oh so holy. I will tell you more about loving than leaving—but not because I’m wise or good or foolish or wrong. I’ll tell you to love all the lemons in your life better, to lie with them on the lawn. Learn about everything that has to do with them. I will tell you, I will tell you, I will tell you.

I will tell you to love your legs most of all, and if you ever find yourself without them, let them know that they are forgiven. Love that last hill, last set of stairs; love the strain of leaving, love how the steps feel the same when you go somewhere different. Love the people that kissed your scraped knees and love that your legs kiss each other—kiss the ground they walk on, kiss socks and boots and sneakers. Love it all. Love that I only said to love your legs because they start with an “L.” So does “Laura” and “Liverpool” and “Lollygagging.” Love them all.

If after all that love, you have room left to love me—room for the both of us—room for us to lie on the lawn and stretch out our legs, feel the lull in our lungs, and if we can let out the spool and go up, and up, and up to our grandmothers laps—after all that, if there’s a space for me—the space separating legs when they breathe between kisses, the space between my house and your house: the space where we will stay—if you can hold me in place between all your other “L” words—I heard you know every line of “The L Word,” is it true? I love that—if you love me after all that—

What will I tell you then?