By Helena Pelsmaekers

I remember

I remember cookies in the shapes of our name I remember the hair stroked out of vanity I remember you not agreeing with being full I remember the bread not risingAnd you still eating it I remember picking your favorite flower I remember you getting our post I remember the Christmas music I remember the plastic table for us to sit at I remember you saying you won’t die from a tick I remember the wooden crossAnd how it was removed later on I remember the lamp that needed a warm up I remember slowing down for bumps I remember the economical use of heating I remember mediocre days I remember no one liked the cake I remember the golden anniversary I remember Wednesday meant spaghetti I remember avoiding the dolls I remember looking at black and white I remember the use of the wrong butter I remember driving to the wrong placeAnd getting your car taken away I remember remembering tree, house, flower I remember the endless questions I remember the breakdowns I remember it turned into oblivion I remember diapers were needed I remember returning to childlike I remember not knowing I remember the fight I remember how it changed I remember the chaos we were in I remember how you couldn’t remember anything