There's so much of it... so many days and years of memories that I can capture with all of my senses so strongly. I'm afraid to fall asleep sometimes or shift my thoughts, as though I might lose one more piece if I do.
I think to myself constantly that I need to write them down... and then I don't... because every time I have a perfect memory you are here with me, and then I have to lose you all over again. Maybe I can make those moments more lasting if I do put them in writing, though, and that is worth the sadness that finds me wherever I go anyway.
When I close my eyes and think of you, I always picture your hands first. I'm not sure why. You used to tell me that you would look at your mother's hands as she grew older and it took you aback to see them age so much. Maybe I see them because they were the only the things that stopped changing when you got sick. You still held my hand as tight as you ever did and your hands were always beautiful. I'm glad that mine sometimes remind me of yours and even those deep ridges in your fingernails... I used to run my fingertips against each of them. Now I can reach down and feel every groove on my own hands.
And with the change of every season, you are everywhere. When we opened the windows this spring I was hit with the best of deja vu. I can feel myself in that tiny twin bed in my old room at home, lazily sleeping in beneath cool sheets. And you come climb into bed with me, like always. It's ridiculously small for two people and I have to grab you tight to keep from rolling off the edge. You love these mornings and, as much as I hate to wake up, it's always been my favorite way to inch out of dreamland.
Coming home last month made all of this more real. I guess there is some part of me that always thinks I'm coming home to you. And the closer we got to Christmas Tree Hill, the more the lump in my throat throbbed. I can see you running down the front steps in your bare feet to meet me at the car. I can feel you hugging me and telling me at least once every three or four minutes how glad you are to have me home. And I can hear your voice... and how you say my name... "Meg?" "Megan Began..." "Megan Liz!"
You're at the kitchen sink and you're biting your pinkie nail with your wrist twisted backward on the blue chair in the living room. You're up at night reading when I get home from Esther's or Caitlin's and you can't wait to talk... even at 2am. You're yelling from another room for me to help you find your glasses or singing in the kitchen and begging me to come sing with you, even though you knew I'd get so embarrassed to sing aloud.
And you're not sick in my memories... not the good ones.... not the ones I intend to keep forever. You're always bouncing around or snuggling with me. You're smiling and laughing and telling me how proud of me you are, even when I do something stupid. You laugh and tell me how much I remind you of you.
I can see you perfectly, Mama. When I wear the purple shirt I got you for Christmas years ago... the one that says "Not all who wander are lost", I can smell your smell... like the inside of a wooden chest with the permanence of home. When your hands reach out to me, they don't grab me like they did so many times when you were sick and so frightened. They hold me tight and they rest on my cheek lightly on a spring morning. That is how I remember you best... frosting me head to toe in sunblock on the beach in Chincoteague, brushing my hair and telling me how lucky I am to have such "gorgeous hair" until I squirm away and yell at you for brushing my ear. I see your hands rolling the sweet roll dough a few days before Christmas, putting out nectar for the hummingbirds while you balance on one foot over the deck railing, reaching out to slam on the non-existant hand brake on the passenger side when I drive too close to someone. I can hear you calling for "Jeffrey Paul, Boogsie, and Jamesy" from the bottom of the stairs with grocery bags in both arms, so happy to be home from work and with your family. And I can see your fingers wrapped around a wine glass, opening a cupboard or the medicine cabinet, unwrapping a Christmas ornament to put on the tree, and doing that 70's finger thing you do when you like the music... your glasses perched on your nose and your lips tight with a mysterious smile.
You're right here with me tonight and always.
