Sometimes I remember you, not you completely, but the way you made me laugh. We’d drive down dusty roads as jokes rolled off your tongue. Windows down, the sun warming us all over and the wind in our faces, it felt like love. Your humor was my drug for my own father was always busy, a workaholic while my Ex was sly, a damn playboy. My life was one of those lousy sitcoms minus the pause button, until you. I remember my daughter liked your shiny motorcycle and your blue truck. We had picnics in the grass and you always roasted the delicious meats and the smores, with heavy gooey marshmallows, gushing everywhere.
Once, you used your gifts to sketch her in that polka dot sundress, and she loved how you added the band-aid on her nose from her ant bite. She looked like a cartoon character, the ones that make her giddy and me smile. Yes, I was dizzy, caught up in you, thinking of greener pastures, a world full of promise, I suppose.
The thing is, I do remember those moments, but everything shifted when you went away, didn’t it? I forgot to take the little blue pills, and the sunlight from one window was all I had. Then, the rain came hard falling-falling on the roof as I slouch in a bathrobe. My daughter giggles while she watches loud cartoons. It’s our music. Later, I’ll make her special pancakes with extra butter and cinnamon. I’ll float about like Casper in a mood until I remember to take the pills and that extra one to numb it, swallow it down and try to forget you.
Once, you used your gifts to sketch her in that polka dot sundress, and she loved how you added the band-aid on her nose from her ant bite. She looked like a cartoon character, the ones that make her giddy and me smile. Yes, I was dizzy, caught up in you, thinking of greener pastures, a world full of promise, I suppose.
The thing is, I do remember those moments, but everything shifted when you went away, didn’t it? I forgot to take the little blue pills, and the sunlight from one window was all I had. Then, the rain came hard falling-falling on the roof as I slouch in a bathrobe. My daughter giggles while she watches loud cartoons. It’s our music. Later, I’ll make her special pancakes with extra butter and cinnamon. I’ll float about like Casper in a mood until I remember to take the pills and that extra one to numb it, swallow it down and try to forget you.
