I remember how you introduced me to your family, pulling me at the wrist, nudging me to shake hands.
Later I shook hands with a doctor and acted like an adult when everyone began using words that were confusing for me but hurt all the same.

You wore plastic jewelry and grinned when I grew bold enough to wear my favorite turquoise pants to school.
You called them, “suitably academic” and shoved me with your shoulder.
Later in the after, I bought red slacks and yellow jeans and wore them angrily to class as if that would make you say my name again.

Two years with a school counselor and I would still mumble northwestern states like I’d never even paid enough attention to specifics.
Like I didn’t know the shape of the town or the photo of the front of the building.

I would pretend until I couldn’t remember either.
Were you in Oregon or Idaho? Could I not call because of long distance fees (lie) or because I was too lazy (lie)?
I learned that denial is a degenerative form of coping and years later I bought a pair of purple pants and felt guilty that they made me happy.

I was angry that even if the earth hadn’t swallowed you up by then, you wouldn’t understand the significance of things like bright colors and pants and dumb homemade beads anymore.