I Remember You

I remember you.

You’re foggy but I do.

I remember you being bossy

and I remember loving it, needing it,

Guiding me barefoot

through our woods, always so mossy.

I remember stealing Kool-Aid in dry measuring cups-

mine a quarter, yours a half

and hiding them in the tractor tire

that was our sand box.

I remember thinking that was perfectly out of view

even though our fingers, lips, tongues

and placky little baby teeth were blue.

I remember how you could protect me

from the spiders underneath the rim

just by being,

being there with me.

I remember that you were, undoubtedly, my best friend.

I remember that I, technically, was your aunt.

But you would never call me that

until I was older than you.

I remember lying in front of your car

so you couldn’t leave me

and you zipping me into your suitcase.

I remember these two best because they almost worked.

I remember all that I did to not let you go away

just for a few months, never worked.

I remember not even getting the chance to try

when you were taken from me forever.

Forever.

Forever titled an aunt

because I’m older than you ever even got the chance to be.

I remember you.