Our Memories

I know you can’t remember 
those smiling afternoons spent rolling 
in the mud pits until our once rainbow tankinis 
became caked with the ground. 
And how when dad told us to wash up, I instead 
aimed the hose at your face, spraying and splirting 
until the well ran dry. 
Before mom called us in, muttering about 
laundry and dishes that we had condemned to their filth.

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I know you can’t remember 
how I used to shake you out of sleep 
crying about monsters and murderers under my bed. 
And even though we both knew 
that I would never find sleep there, 
you provided me refuge sandwiched 
between the wall and my protector.

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I know you can’t remember 
that amusing game we played 
where I would chase you 
down hallways and stairs attempting 
to throw my arms around your neck 
while you dodged and ducked the flailing limbs 
pretending to hate it but loving me too. 

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And I know you can’t remember 
that middle school day when you walked in 
to me crying about the less fun games 
those mean girls played. 
So you held me and swiped my tears 
and cussed at the person who caused them. 
Flipping my frown one word at a time, 
showing me I was loved by the person who mattered.

But K, please understand 
that I will forever be your living diary, 
so if there is something you don’t know 
or words you cannot find, 
lean on me as I have always leaned on you. 
My memories are your memories are our memories. 
For once, fall apart and let me pick up the pieces, 
for you have been far too strong for far too long. 
And if the day comes 
when you don’t know who I am, 
my memories are your memories, will forever be 
our memories.