remembering you

For most people, I think February symbolizes love, hearts, flowers, candy, pink, red. February reminds me of all the missed opportunities. Not only that, but all the memories that I am terrified will fade away, that I'll no longer be able to recall. The memories we had together. The memories you had that I never knew. My own memories that I fear no one will know if I don't write them down.

Like your favorite color. You used to tell me it was pink, but mine was pink, so I wonder if you were just siding with a toddler rather than reasoning difference with one. How can you know someone 21 years and not be positive what her favorite color was?

I never knew your father was an attorney. Not until last year when it casually came up in a conversation with dad. Did I miss that somewhere? All I ever knew was that he was in the military.

I wonder about how you and dad met. I know the basics, but not the specifics. I have asked him, but there's two sides to every story, but this story is now forever one-sided.

Remember when you used to cut my hair in the kitchen when I was little? I'd sit on those milk jug stools that Dad brought home from Bordens before my time and you painted yellow. Then, when I was older, how I'd cut your hair in the kitchen as you sat on the very same stool.

I remember how you used to tape the Astros games that would air on TV in Rock Springs, and how you'd yell at anyone for telling you the score until you'd watched it, even if it was days later.

Or when the huge box of knitted baby clothes and a handmade ring pillow for a wedding arrived in the mail from your mom, when I was just in high school, along with a note that she might not be around when I had kids, and she wanted me to have them. I thought she was just being her crazy self. The one that made a sock into a purse and wore it to Alison's wedding. But it turned out neither of you made it to my wedding, although that pillow did.

I wonder what you'd think of me now. You never met my husband, my kids. I think you had a lot in common with all of them, and that you'd really get along. Hell, I think even dad likes Harry. Nana thought that was quite impressive. Sometimes I wonder what you'd do in a particular situation or how things might be different. I know it's useless, because you aren't here, but my mind wanders.

February brings your birthday. You'd be 57. Almost exactly 30 years older than me. It's still so weird you aren't here. There's still situations where I am thisclose to picking up the phone to tell you something or ask about your day when I remember.

I remember so many Valentine's Days with you. Even your last. I still have the stuffed puppy dog you brought home to me, not able to bear parting with it. Remember you and dad helping me make my Valentine's card box for the contests at school when I was little. Sharing dinner with you at the French Quarter, not knowing we'd never have another Valentine's date together.

I laid awake late last night with tears streaming down my face for no apparent reason. I guess February really makes me miss you.