“Remember me, Mommy,” I hear her say.
“I know who you are, and who took me
to all the places. Don’t let your brain go
to places or people who were never with me.”
To the field or in my dreams, I reply to her,
“It just made me mad what she did to you.”
“Remember me, Mommy,” she says again.
“I don’t know her, but I know you. We went
places many five year olds never got to go, so
remember me jumping in pool puddles
when you and Daddy tried to get me
to put on those sandals. I wanted to jump in
my bright pink boots instead.”
I pause the music I play on my phone as I walk
through the field where your Dad has mowed
trails for me to walk. Before I had sat down at my
desk to write the night of your funeral, anger
had filled me like putting more water in the
coffee pot than what it could really hold. “Mommy,
remember when you had bad dreams about
the places you were before. I hugged you because
I knew you were sad.” I stop walking and reply,
“I hope you don’t remember me that way.”
“No, Mommy. You got better, and I remember
the Sunday you danced with me. I said, ‘Pick me,
up. Pick me, up, Mommy.’” I chuckle and say,
“You had gotten so much bigger, and I couldn’t
hold you up for too long.” I hear you laugh–the
kind you used when you joked about poop
on the couch with your big brother. “Remember
me that way, Mommy. I promise my voice won’t fade.”
By Rebecca T. Dickinson
Corrie's Season 