I Remember

What days do I remember?
The days that I remember are few.
The goodness in the glass it goes so fast, swirling in your hand, your eyes look away for a moment. Sweeten the juice for me please.
Sweeten it with sugar.
I remember.
I remember being born, of looking into the world for the first, wanting to understand.
I remember days of warm tears, of unrestrained sobbing, the taste of salty water. I remember alone.
I remember my heart jumping out of my chest, forgetting to pump the blood when I felt sadness, or joy, or even love.
I remember seeing that no one else's heart did the same thing, and learning how to hide the happiness.

I remember homework, long shadows in the house, when raw November took the afternoon dark. I remember the smell of stew cooking on the stovetop.
I remember waking up cold from a nap, my mind disoriented, my body in shiver as I searched for a sweater.
I remember the fear for my parents, giants with power if not reason. I remember being two foot tall.
I remember the icy bite of Winter days, inside the house while the men watched football. I remember the sound of the whistle in the stadium frozen.
I remember seeing a beautiful woman's face and knowing love. Everything about it.
I remember days of not caring, of car rides and letter grades, of taking my first step to live music. I remember drive-thru windows.
I remember the days of liquid love, of bodies in tangle, losing my limbs in hers. I remember the speed of the pulse when someone was listening.
I remember the promise of a baseball game before the first pitch is thrown. I remember hope. I remember listening for the score.
I remember seeing her standing there, all the answers in a blink of her eye. I remember I couldn't speak.
I remember Summer days, when the sun refused to leave the sky, the ache inside me pull hard as the clouds soaked up the leaking color. I remember the sweet pinks, the savage blues, and the blood orange.
I remember standing outside, looking in. Waiting in a line that never moved.
I remember watching her walk away from me. I remember the new pain.
I remember riding the train, at night, all night, every night, wondering if the other passengers knew how all alone I felt. I remember black outside the windows, in my head and in my heart, holding back the moans as my soul bled slow.
I remember praying for daylight.
I remember that hot Summer day, in the park, when I was five. I remember the taste. I remember the hyperlife and absolute perfection, the sponge mind of a child in a brilliant moment, the green grass growing before my eyes, reaching up and out to touch the sunshine. I remember my mother and father in the distance while I stepped outside of reality, this dimension, into the real world so beautiful most human beings never get a look. I remember being the architect of the universe, creating, engaging, documenting every detail of that moment for reference in the life of pain I knew was to come.
I remember thinking 'it will never get any better than this.' I remember that moment has sustained me.
I don't remember much. I remember these things.
And you.
I remember you.
Everything about you.
I remember every single beautiful, impossible, magical, loving, sublime thing about you.
I remember you.
And I always will.
I will always remember you. 

1 comment:

  1. This is just superb. I love the rhythm in your writing and the sentiment. It feels honest and I roll with it. So very, very beautiful.