God, that was hard.
We left it until the very end.
Dividing up the polaroids.
Sitting outside the airport, tears flowing down our faces.
Our cheeks stained with salt from the past week.
Our eyes, red as could be.
So many memories,
and so many more that we never photographed.
We always got too lost in the moment to remember.
We sifted through them, one-by-one,
reminiscing about all those tender times,
the rollercoaster, that had been our lives.
We each kept our favourites.
It's hard to choose just one.
As I recall them on my own,
without you by my side,
tears streaming down my cheeks,
on my own,
my favourite is the one where we are baking.
I love-love-loved cooking together.
I have always been a chef,
and I was supposed to teach you how to cook,
but you were the one who taught me about food.
You gave me the ability to nourish, and feed myself,
gave me the courage, to love myself.
You helped me on my way to repairing my relationship
So, yes, I taught you how to cook, but you taught me how to eat.
And for that, I will forever be grateful.
The polaroid is of us, laughing, giddily.
My sister is behind the camera, with her now fiance.
I'm pretending to hit you with a spoon,
your hands out-stretched, and up-high,
your face wide with fake-fear.
I can see that smile in your eyes.
It makes me laugh everytime.
but with happiness.
I can smell that house. The incense burning in the background.
The smell of coconut oil, and lavender.
The smell of you.
I'm trying not to rememeber
all of our moments
through rose-tinted glasses.
I think because we shared so much joy.
We laughed so hard.
We were so silly, and light,
for people touched by such darkness and plight.
Nostalgia is a funny thing.
Happy tinged with sad.
Or is it sad tinged with happy?
I don't know. I dosn't matter really.
I do know, that as much as I miss these moments,
and as much as I miss you,
we will make more memories.
More photographs will be taken.
Just not yet.
I need not be sad, when
there is so much happy to come.
Patience will be our virtue.
I will keep collecting memories,
so that we have things to share,
when we are ready to be part of eachothers lives again.
Fourteen in Winter
When I view photo albums, I go back
In time. I seem fine. But, alas! Alack!
At times, one will jar my mind too much!
Then memories brim over in a rush.
Paint-by-numbers and female snowmen,
Brother-Sister fights forever, amen!
Old friends call and forgotten songs play.
Plants are repotted on an icy Snow Day.
An old year ends and board games are played.
Bright future plans and resolutions are made.
A new way of life, new smells, and new faces,
My wonderful love, and faraway places.
Meaningful, senseless poems begin, and
Paint-by-numbers and female snowmen.