Don't Be Scared

It's okay now. It's over.

And even knowing what she was going to say couldn't stop me from falling apart when she did.

Do you remember that afternoon, in the hospital, when you'd had such trouble with the words, such a hard time remembering who I was or why you were held captive in this confusing mansion where you didn't know a soul? I sat and held you for hours in silence until the worst of the fog passed, and when I mentioned your favorite poem, you began reciting it like your mind was clear as day? I read it to you then, even though it was hard through the tears, and we stared out the window at the turning leaves and smiled. When I told you I loved you that day, you understood what it meant.

We've been reading that poem for years, did you remember that? Those late nights in your living room, passing the the little book of poetry that once was your mother's between us, saying you read it just one more time, before eventually going to sleep. Do you remember the way we all inherited your giggle and your silly mannerisms against our will, but how we never tried to get rid of them, once we had? Do you know we think of you every time we find ourselves buying flowers on Friday or leaving the last piece of food on a serving tray?

You loved me with every fiber of your little body, because you knew no other way to love. When you laughed, you lit up the room, and when you'd made up your mind, no rhyme or reason could change it. When we spoke on the phone, we'd talk about pulling out a gigantic pair of scissors and cutting the country in two, so we could glue the pieces together next to each other and not be so far apart. I always hoped there'd be a day when it would be true.

Do you remember the time you picked me up from preschool and we ate licorice lozenges as we walked home hand in hand? Or when I'd discovered Tom Lehrer and gave you silly concerts you probably hardly understood, and you encouraged every infantile story I wrote you? Do you remember our constant dilemma of choosing different paths through the woods for our walks, and how we pretended to live in all the beautiful Victorian houses along the river? How you told me tales of growing up in the north, of Stockholm in the 40s, how you taught me to obsessively pat the little wooden Buddha's belly on my way out the door because my mother had done it her whole childhood and the knock of the wood against the banister was engrained in my steps down those stairs? Do you remember how you named the lawn mower and laughed when we said goodnight because and you'll be here when I wake up tomorrow? was such a lovely luxury we afforded each other? Will you remember that now that you're gone?

Because I will.