I remember (5/19/13 and 5/20/13)

They told me not to go in. I'd remember.

I remember the bandages on your head. I remember so many wires and tubes. I remember the sound of the machine as it breathed for you. Before I left, I said goodbye. Did you hear me, wherever you were?

Then all night, awake. Who could sleep? What if they were wrong? My own vigil.

I remember. You, breathing but not. Holding your hand. Goodbye. Leaving. Then the numbness. My sister's green sweater I wore for days. Lewis was right – grief felt like fear. And it persisted.

Nothing prepared me for that.

But they were wrong, too.

I remember so much. Your smile. Watching MTV, forbidden. Hunting for those crayfish you loved to sell to Aunt Cheryl. Was it worth it, all that work? You never shared the loot.

Fishing. Amazing how those sunfish went for just bread. And flying down that riverbed on four wheels, and soaring, just soaring, over those jumps. You kept me safe. How excited you where when I 'read'. Your pride and love for that little niece, and my little nephew. They'll never know, but I remember.

Only twenty. Many memories still, and I remember them, too.