I remember the feeling of you more than you. I remember you mostly through stories re-told to me for years and decades of my life.
I have a picture of you, at graduation, smiling down at whoever was taking the picture and I wonder about you. I wonder what would have been different had you stayed longer.
I remember a feeling of you under my knees and poking hands as I clambered up and up and up until I could reach your face to pat it softly on the side.
I remember a room, with a bed in it, with brown carpets and heavy wooden furniture. I remember the hose
itching my legs and the lace itching my neck and wrists.
I remember a long ceremony and a new lady that I liked well enough.
I remember in snippets and breaths of feelings and flashes. I remember in the breathing in and realizing I'm smelling a scent that really belongs to you.
I remember a room filled with strangers and how it was the first time I recall disliking the smell of flowers when there was a big box in the room with them and tears falling on my head.
I remember wondering, why you weren't around anymore and trying to figure out where you went. I remember knowing that asking wasn't an option. Because even that small I remember feeling shamed by my questions and inability to understand things way beyond my maturity.
I remember your room with the wall of books. I remember wanting a wall of books in a heavy wooden case just like yours. I remember looking out your window and wondering what you thought when you looked out them.
I remember you more in feelings than fact; in disjointed flashes and shared stories from mostly people that I can no longer trust to tell me truths about anything.