I tried to remember years back, just how it was you used to looked at me. But the best I could recall was one time in my parents' kitchen, how you lifted me onto the washing machine and kissed me until my last sense had long fled. You always had an intensity. Seeing me in ways I don't think I was yet capable of seeing you. I'd give you more credit for that now. Now I know that you say what you say, create the moment and life as it is needed. Did you always do that and I missed it?
On this day, I felt it as my smile wrapped you up, knew my eyes were snapping with expression. My heart opening a channel as we matched each other word for unspoken word. The observers read more than either of us would have liked. I reached out to touch your arm just before I turned to go so that later, when I wanted to remember, I would know that it was real, that I could trust the memory.
