I Remember

I remember small, bare feet on linoleum.
I remember holding on to your large, dry hands.
Five tiny fingers guided by a callused thumb.
I remember being homesick.
I remember the old fashioned telephone I couldn’t reach.
I remember watching you dial mom so I could say goodnight.
I remember the creamy taste of whole milk
In the lime green refrigerator.
& the smell of an eggshell mattress topper.
I remember the repetition of fan blades
& the cool breeze in my hair.
I remember the morning sun shining orange through red curtains.
I remember Bozo The Clown.
I remember the smell of black coffee.
The quiet hum of the TV.
I remember the grease on your work clothes
& how it would seep into the cracks in your hands.
The un-washable stains of hard work.
I remember your name tag reading “Duck”,
A nickname associated with Mallard ducks that I never quite understood.
I remember cigarette smoke & how it would eat at my clothes.
I remember deer close enough to touch.
I remember Grandparent’s Days.
I remember always having to sit in the middle.
I never was one for sharing.
I remember handmade crafts.
Glitter glue.
Construction paper.
I remember you guiding my hand through the curves of letters.
I remember “Good job, Baby Girl”.
I remember your first heart attack.
I remember the look on mom’s face, and the hurried rush to the hospital.
I remember the passing trees through the car windows
And the quiet, sharp “s’s” and “t’s” of the radio.
I remember relief.
I remember the ugly scar across your chest.
I remember staring at it months later.
Wondering what it must feel like to die.
I remember noticing the small “JR” tattoo for the first time.
I remember thinking the blue ink looked nice on you.
I remember Christmases in front of the glowing tree.
I remember being lost in wrapping paper.
Hiding behind snowmen, challenging you to find me.
I remember holding my dinner plate with two hands.
& falling asleep in your chair.
I remember Easter dresses, & posing on the speckled brown couch.
I remember Easter egg hunts in the tall grass.
Racing back to you to count with me.
I remember visiting every Sunday.
Feeling my stomach rise and fall over the hills of country roads.
I remember doing my American Lit homework across the room from you.
I remember being distracted by your cough & and your tendency to wheeze.
& selfishly wishing you’d be quiet.
I remember hating the way your cigarette smoke would linger for days.
& missing it when it was gone.
I remember the day you & grandma quit.
I remember suddenly feeling homesick.
I remember hugs & kisses goodbye.
Promises of next Sunday.
I remember being too busy with boys to visit.
I remember phone calls that weren’t enough.
I remember a good-bye dinner when I left for college.
I remember having to settle for your face in a photograph.
I remember grandma saying you were asleep when I’d call.
I remember your final heart attack.
I remember a phone call at 2:00am from my dad.
“I’m sorry Baby, there’s nothing they could do”, I remember.
I remember not being there when you died, & never forgiving myself for it.
I remember a sick empty feeling.
I remember guilt.
I remember suddenly missing that cigarette smoke, and your callused hands.
I remember my grandma crying.
I don’t remember her ever stopping.
I remember watching a funeral through foggy eyes.
I remember reminding myself to breathe.
I remember years later, watching mallard duck feathers hanging from a dream catcher waiting for sleep.
I remember wondering what it must feel like to die.