I Love You, And I Can’t Remember Your Face

I think I remember your hair—that unique, cherry-black color, almost with a purplish hue, cut in a short, cropped bob that framed your face. I think you had bangs, too. I could ask my mom if that’s true. Did Grandma have bangs? I know she remembers, and then I would know for sure. But I’ll never ask her; I don’t want to make her sad. Unlike me, I know she remembers you enough. So instead, I open old picture books and I see you there, clear as day. I realized I knew you had bangs all along.

I think I remember your hands—small and wrinkled and ever so steady, with long, bare nails that once traced the words of the books you read to me, helping me find my first love: reading. I found that love right there with you; I know I did. But I can’t remember it very well at all. I can barely make out the curve of your pointer nail in my mind—I see it in glimpses, sometimes, pressed against a colorful page, or against a bolded word I had never seen spelled out before: Thorough. Afterward. Enough. You taught me these things. Your knowledge still rattles around in my brain somewhere—somewhere still.

I think I remember your car. It was small and dark—maybe black, maybe dark green. You drove me to school and back everyday, when my feet still dangled above the floor, legs kicking and flailing for ground. I sat next to my fluffy, strapped up baby seat when I was old enough to sit in the carseat and wear my seatbelt. When I drive sometimes I feel like you, my hands spinning the wheel like yours used to, back when I watched you in silent awe. But it isn’t as fun as it looked back there, in the back of your car, watching you take me away.

I think I want you to know me now, even though it’s hard for me to know me as of late. I think you would love me anyway. Ten awful years without you; I feel insane with it. I feel helpless without you here. I feel empty without your hardwood floor under my feet; I forgot the feel of it. I love you, I know I do, but most days, I can’t remember your face. I don’t know if I’ve blocked you out, or if I’ve forgotten you the way I promised I’d never do. I think it’s both. Every time I try to remember you, I break all over again.

I don’t know how people stomach it: death. This loss, this fatal thing, this permanence. This gap in my soul. The gap in my sister’s soul. My mother’s chest is hollow with it. I hope you’d like what you’d see if you woke up here tomorrow. I hope my love for you hasn’t dimmed, even as I write this with tears in my eyes, knowing that could never be true. But if it isn’t, why can’t I remember your face? I hate myself for it. I hate myself for letting you fade. I’m lost and scared of myself here without you. I’m scared of the future. I’m scared of even my greatest dream: of our souls intertwining again one day, without truly deserving you.

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This was deeply emotional to put down, but I’m glad I did. Thank you to everyone for reading ♥️