caught in sentimentality

I remember when he wore a Boy Scout uniform to school
and I brushed off the Indie-infestation along with his first and last name.

And now he eats spaghetti at my dinner table and even climbed in my parent's bathtub once.

I remember when the other boy stopped coming to seminary, when all I had was his name and the corner desk, the non-white shirt he wore and the time he didn't help me with dishes on a trip we took to Idaho.

I remember almost asking him to help me with those dishes
but the silence between his cereal and his blood sugar didn't see me at 7am.

I remember not talking to him for 7 more months. 

And not because he wasn't worth the conversation.

I remember the first time I burned myself on purpose.

I remember spinning in the canyon. Watching the headlights spiral across the bridge cement the trees the bridge the lake the ice cement.

I remember the windshield going up like flames. The 5 bodies that found their way out of the smoke and the seatbelt that swaddled my neck and whispered panic in my ear.

I remember the boy that screamed my name and the crushed door that couldn't hear him.

I don't remember him or the texture of his hands 

or the words he whispered once the broken machine 

gave up its last hostage.

But I remember the ambulance churning out loud noises 

and the panic I saw in 5 cold bodies halfway up a canyon where we weren't supposed to be heard.

I remember the meningitis.

When Papa snuck McDonald's into the hospital bed.
It was Sunday and that made him the most beloved sinner.

I remember when she introduced her sister in the Timberline hallway, first day of eighth grade, whose panicked sprint across a Walmart parking lot and ivory bedroom walls found a place in my art closet/heart.

And I remember thinking she was shy and lacked vibrancy 

but turns out she's the only color that stayed on my wall,

and her head carries more movement than high tide and her laugh sounds like California.

I remember the blue-eyed boy and his politics, the way he walked in with my playlist on shuffle
and all the honest things that came from bloody gauze and his mediocre Spanish,
the "the language of the gods"

And sometimes I catch myself remembering how sick he is.
And how sick those kids will be and how much his wife will cry for him.

I guess I have a thing for guys with chronic illness.

I remember the first green envelope he wrote my name on,
my last-chance-check before the 3 week vacation which carried two pages of almost-tears.

I remember the last one, too.

It's been months and his eye color is starting to fade because I haven't reminded him that I still exist.

If he ever reads this, I'm sorry I never replied.

I remember the tall-dark boy that ate fake mayonnaise
in front of my eighth-grade insecurity, and I laughed at how attractive
the student body president was.

And I won't forget when he picked me up 4 years later, an hour late for prom.

I remember being afraid of the thick-haired dancer 

who witnessed the 7th grade bombshell that chewed me out on that table 

in the hideous junior high.

I remember when she donated all her hair to charity and still had enough to clothe a large family.

I don't remember how my fear of ketchup started,
but I remember the iHop table they coated with it
just to watch me climb the leather and convulse.

I remember the tower papa would build with us every Saturday on the floor of the St. George house,
30 million miles from the fear of any bills he dropped tears for.

I laugh at BMW's and Land Rover's, but they fascinated me once and I remember that.

Now I remember the grand staircase and the marble floor coated in petals
and I remember the money that spiraled from the pearl ceiling and the lipstick that stained them
and wafted from all the beautiful hair and the doe eyes that conquered hundreds of first kisses.

I remember the pumpkins, grandma, and I will always, always remember
the man that stiff-armed me in the Netherlands while we rode our bikes to the Wassenaar shore.

And I want to dedicate this post to someone but I don't remember who.