The violin, the parting of curtains in pitch black darkness before the first string is played. The applause.
My mother’s tomato garden, picking ripe fruit with four year old hands. Red and orange and yellow. The yellow ones were my favorite. They almost looked alien, as if they had no place in sandwiches nor earth itself.
The elementary school swings.
My father running around the house in bare feet, videotaping my every move. Loose tooth, unwrapping gifts on Christmas morning, making snow angels in the front yard. Safe haven. He captured all of childhood’s colors. He never let a single one fade from view, pan away from the lens.
But what, perhaps, do I miss most?
Waking without the need for coffee. Shooting out of bed like a star propelled out of a canyon, eyes like pearls, no need to shake out of early morning haze.
These days I melt out of sleep, dragged by my ankles, sludging through the gray sleet of morning hours.
Those days my heart beat without searching for answers, without drumming in hopes of healing. Beat. Beat. Beat. Those strings did not yet snap at the flick of his name. Or any name. Those days, all names were safe. No one was a wound. No one stung, no life tinged with alcohol on a sidewalk scrape.
I miss a lot. And consequently, I have missed a lot due to the very act of missing a lot.
You, and the beach, and chasing after my cousin’s heels, following the trails of our summer laughter.