I Remember
I remember being small and the hospital big with long hallways and tall open windows
I remember prayer circle and how it didn’t work
I remember the color yellow and a funeral where I tried going to the candy jar but the door was locked and the ceremony had started
I remember it was okay because
I was only 7 and was now half orphaned                 no one stays angry at a 7 year old half orphan
You are too young to understand, don’t worry sweetie

I remember new people in the house   people who didn’t always smell good
and hair from dogs, cats, hamsters                     water on the floor from goldfish bowls

I remember we chose not to move
I remember being angry, confused, cold, tired and afraid of jack rabbits but missing visits to the desert

I remember seeing you as a stranger
awkwardly shaped moving through a swimming pool
you thought I was obnoxious,                       I remember because your friends told me
I remember forcibly inserting myself into your life
I remember flowers, fragrances, grass, scabby knees, ***** palms, the orchard, the creek, the bikes, the plumbs, the poetry the fields and the sun

I remember everything drenched in chlorine        sweat on your upper lip

I remember walking through your yard finding broken glass like diamonds.
you showed me where your dog Diego was buried
underneath your mother’s roses beside her St. Jude sculpture

I remember your yellow kitchen table
clam chowder, rice, pico, tamales, carrots, onions, steak, salmon burgers, potatoes, cheesecake
an increasing heartbeat every time we sat down for dinner with your parents.
I wish I didn’t have to eat this food

I remember new furniture, finances, fighting, moving trucks, paperwork, boxes, compartmentalizing and roommates with strange piercings

I remember replacing trees with concrete and bicycles with buses
on my first day at a new job in a new place
I found a syringe in the bathroom toilet.
I remember trains, cigarettes, crows, crosswalks, garbage, people, street art, highways that all scared the **** out of me

I remember the sting of alcohol leaving my throat and nostrils into stained porcelain while high knee socks itched my skin and strange piercings held back my hair

I remember short visits
Your sweetness and the comfort of your familiarity

I remember baking pie with my face down in the bowl
avoiding questioning eyes and tightly pressed lips of relatives
“Are you seeing someone new?”
“How is school?”
“Will you visit Texas?”
                                                         ­                                    ******* and never ask me anything again
I remember imagining myself running out the door, through the yard, down the street, over the bridge, around the river and into a quiet bed

I remember the scent of chlorine sending me into frenzy
I remember how you resented me                                          I resented the hell out of you
I remember you calling me complacent                       I remember wanting you to disappear

I remember new lips, new tastes, new palms, new faces, new smells, new picnics
and a neighbor’s dog

I remember no longer feeling angry, confused, cold, tired, or afraid of jack rabbits, but still missing visits to the desert

I remember the time we were laying in bed with the sun shining through the window, tall and open.