Sunburnt Memory

When the days lengthen with the slow creep of warmth, and the sun’s parade overtakes the coolness of night, that is where I sense you.

When a cool breeze is a soft caress and an afternoon shower is a gentle release of the asphalt’s heated sizzle, that is where I sense you.

When the fire simmers to lazy embers and its guests are wrapped in soft woven throws while the ocean sighs upon the sand, that is where I sense you.

When the afternoon warmth is chased away by curdling black clouds billowing with the promise of fat droplets, that is where I sense you.

In the child’s giggle as water mists over baked grass, that is where I hear you.

In the upbeat music of a summertime playlist slinking through a speaker while a child holds a frozen treat, that is where I hear you.

In the splash as a child flings themselves towards the warm salt water while a mother watches with an oversized smile, beneath the oversized shadow of an oversized umbrella, that is where I hear you.

In the soft exhale of a tiny mouth overcome in awe as fireworks paint the still-warm night sky, that is where I hear you.

I see you in every toothy grin of your siblings.

I see you in every pink and purple dusk and warm-red sunrise.

I see you in every birth announcement.

I see you in every nursery department.

I question the timing.

I question your favorites.

I question your hair color.

I question your eye color.

I ache in the winter when I imagine your birthday.

I ache in the spring when I think of your grandmother and immediately think of you.

I ache in the fall when I imagine your first day of school, all the new beginnings you never started.

I ache in the summer the worst.

I will not wipe your tears when your knee matches the texture of the driveway.

I will not maneuver your inexperienced fingers through the intricacies of laces.

I will not scrub dough from your hair and the crevices of your pale nails.

I will not carry your exhausted form up the staircase at the end of every new adventure.

I wonder if you would march to the tune of your own drum; a beat orchestrated by the innocence of summer only seen through a child’s eyes.

I wonder if you would be inclined towards art, would paint stain your fingers similarly to my own?

I wonder if you would have your father’s cheekbones or your grandfather’s dimples.

I wonder if you would rise with the early sun or find solace in the moon’s cold calm.

I crave your cry, even in the dead of night when the world sleeps and expectations rouse my sleeping husk.

I crave your touch, to count your tiny fingers and toes repetitively in the darkness to satiate my nighttime worries.

I crave your birth, the sting of medication in my veins and the ache of muscles pulling and pushing to bring you closer to your first breath.

I crave your firsts and lasts and every single moment of the in-between.

Instead, I focus on monotony and run from silence.

Instead, I tap in rhythm to the ever-present anxiety crawling up my spine.

Instead, I pin back your sister’s hair and kiss your brother’s mud-smeared cheek.

Instead, I lock the door and open this hole in my chest.

I give in to the guilt that smears my own insecurities across the walls of my mind.

I give in to the seething tears that track hot paths down my face.

I give in to the loathing anger towards my own incapable body.

I give in to the hallowed memories that could have been you.

The pain writhes and burns,

The pain simultaneously pushes outwards and crumbles inwards,

The pain is omnipresent, omnipotent, omniscient.

I want to know you.

I want to hear you.

My sunburnt memory, I am sorry.