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Author’s Note: In loving memory of my Aunt. You left a wonderful heartprint on my life.
Music snaked out from the twines of speakers precariously mounted upon my bedroom ceiling. The faint strains of Jim Reeves only served to add another tear to the evening. A brand-new box of crayons sat upon the desk, beckoning, hopeful, for my company. And so begins this cycle.
I lay on the bed, as if lifeless, literally, watching them and remembering you instead. The music was like a fog, because in my head, all I saw was flashbacks. I remember you. I truly do. Your laugh is echoing through my heart, because I can hear your voice in my head, singing along to each song.
Singing hymns with you was fun. You would sing the same song over and over, just ’cause I wanted to. You knew some of the words, so we shared the songbook. Minutes to hours at a time. You never minded. I loved that about you.
My music is fading into the background. I should not move yet.
The sun rises up and sets in the west. Night claims a newborn eve.
The walls of my soul are lined with pages. Miles and miles of your special pictures. We colored inside and outside the lines, the two of us. We’d share one book and one box of crayons. I loved that about you.
My new box taunts me from the desk. I cannot move yet. No, not yet.
The sun rises up and sets in the west. Night claims a newborn eve.
A peony pink hair bauble, a striped green scrunchie. My pretty things were beautiful to you. Oh how I should have shared. I remember the moments where I’d lend you a few, but my selfish heart didn’t know to grow. To move beyond the little things, to share with you a greater thing. Yet, you cared for me, just the same. I loved that about you.
My plastic box of hair ornaments grows another inch every year. But I shall not move. No, not yet.
The sun rises up and sets in the west. Night claims a newborn eve.
Fresh tea is beside me. I know not how it arrived. The scent is tantalizing, wishful, wantful. Memories of you return and fade. I remember sharing with you. It meant something more, when divided equally. You shared. I shared. I loved that about you.
My tea grows cold and dead within. But I will not move. No, not yet.
The sun rises up and sets in the west. Night claims a newborn eve.
The morn was cold and harsh when I heard. Nothing to soften words I wished I couldn’t hear. I do not remember if I cried or not. I felt frozen, in time, seeing all and nothing. You were my friend, of my family, a kindred soul spirit. I loved that about you.
The box of crayons are calling me. I lift the first finger.
The door of the weeping chambers glide open, footsteps fill my ears. Hands slide under my shoulders and I am lifted from this world of strangeness. Someone hands me a perfect, golden crayon. A clean sheet of paper is set before me. My hands tremble as it pushes the yellowness across the barren surface. A lovely golden stripe adorns this tapestry of memory.
Voices crowd into my space and I am forced to return to this present. My physical needs will be attended to, but for now, my heart overflows. Your memory is strengthened and my own thoughts return to order. I will live and so will you, in my heart, as time flows on. I loved that about you.
The sun rises up and I with it. Night will claim naught but silence this day.
Copyright 2008. Sara Harricharan