I Remember

I remember that hot summer day in July. The air was sticky—the wind motionless. I

was barefoot, playing across the yard under the big oak tree. I had just celebrated my

eighth birthday a few weeks back. You were eleven.

We were at grandma’s house though I can’t remember why—we were always at

grandma’s house it seemed. Dad called for me to come inside. He sat me down, said

something about an accident, but there was no who, or how. Or maybe there was, I really

can’t recall.

But I do recall walking down that long, white hall—it looked as if it could go on forever.

There were people all around me and the lights were as bright as the sun. The sun, what

happened to the sun?

The windows were too high for a little girl to gaze through to see if the sun was still

shining. The hint of sky that peeked through the glass, now appeared dark and grey,

much like the gloom that hung in the air.

We sat for what felt like hours, in a large room filled with tables and chairs. It was an

ugly room with two large, ugly silver doors—which for some reason children weren’t

allowed crossing. But you were back there behind those doors, and I wanted to be there

too. I was bored and wanted someone to play with. “We don’t want you to remember

her this way,” they said to me, “she doesn’t look the same.” But I was eight, I didn’t

understand. If I can’t see you, why am I here?

I can’t remember anything else about that day—just that you were sleeping in peace. I

can’t even remember the last time I saw you, or the last time we played. Those memories

have faded away. All I see now is the color pink, long strands of gold, and a single

picture of you surrounded by a blanket of the prettiest red roses.