I can't see your face in my mind
. . . and yesterday I forgot
Tomorrow, I might lose my only memories of you, and the day after that, I may lose sight of the dreams you offered me. I'll probably cease my references to you in conversation one day, and someday. . . probably the day after I forget what you sounded like in your sleep. . . I will forget you entirely.
But today, I am going to write you as I remember you, for all the days to come. For an eternity. For my love for you. For you.
I remember that you used to get up at the crack of dawn, and that you would make your pot of coffee, and sit by the window watching the sun rise.(You always sat there with your eyes closed, waiting for the sun to hit your face, and the moment it did was always magical.) You always smelled earthy, and you worked the soil of your garden with your hands. . . never bringing in a plow or a spade. Things always grew greener, and brighter and healthier where you were. I was in awe of those hands. They were big, and calloused from working, and gentle... they were always loving hands.
You were patient. We used to go for long walks, and the wind always blew your hair just so, and the neighbors always invited you in for a drink. You always had time. And there was always a spare moment for me to climb up on your lap, and we would talk about everything, and nothing at all for hours.
You taught me to fish. I remember it: we went out on a dock with worms and little poles, and buckets, and dropped the lines into the water. Every 30 or 40 seconds one of us would bring out a sunfish, sparkling, and wet, and wriggling on the line. Even then it was beautiful. You showed me how to clean the fish by cutting it "just-so," and you showed me later the value of a frying pan and some butter. We ate them in your kitchen, one at a time, with our fingers. . . picking out the bones.
You were my best friend. . . or as best as you could have been. . . second only to Suzie (the invisible friend I kept in my right pants pocket until I was 8), and to Alice, my favorite doll. I used to wear your sweater when I watched Mr. Rogers on your little 13 inch black and white tv.
I miss you.
But I won't forget you. . . not until tomorrow.