I remember digging my toes into the thick, goopy mud in our overgrown backyard when I was a little girl.

I remember running home from the dirt-dusted bus stop with my siblings, trying to beat the shadows of the clouds cast by the sun.

I remember the hug of the summer air, enveloping me like a second skin.

I remember the fiery pain of the hornet stinger beneath my right foot.

I remember my older brother dunking his slice of watermelon into salt and taking a bite out of it, red sticky juice dripping down his chin and wrist with an absence of grace.

I remember hearing the off-key song of the ice cream truck, faint but within earshot.

I remember my mom waking me up to eat a steaming bowl of brown-sugared oatmeal in the middle of the night, just because.

I remember the thud of his loving heartbeat against the bumpy skin of my warm chest.

I remember jumping as high as possible to yank off the juicy oranges, the size of a softball, from the tree.

I remember her knotted, gray, no-longer-stray fur nuzzling against my faded jeans as if she’s always loved me.

I remember holding his hand, winter-wind-dry, cold, and skinny just moments before breaking up with him.

I remember the soft autumn mist, creating a veil of gray across the football field.

I remember how slippery with sweat my skin was on the suffocating bus ride home in September.

I remember how my dad packed his lunch the same way every day; 7 baby carrots, 2 granola bars, 1 banana, 12 potato chips, 1 bologna and American cheese sandwich with mayonnaise.

I remember his beige Coleman lunch box with the maroon lid, rough and smelled of plastic, too-ripe banana, and “Dad”.

I remember the thin skin beneath my eyes, rubbed raw, flaky, and salt-ruined after countless hours of darkness.

I remember sitting with my stubby girl legs spread out in front of me on the wooden kitchen floor, dipping cinnamon cookies into pink and blue yogurt.

I remember our first kiss, stiff and clumsy, but electric…gentle…and not enough.

I remember the look of loss hidden behind my dad’s smile as we grew smaller in the airport security on Father’s Day.