You.

I remember you. I remember you laughing, and walking, and sleeping, and smiling, and talking. I remember you listening. I don't remember not remembering you - you are in my earliest memories, and in photos before I can remember, you are in my car tonight as I drive home.

I remember sitting across from you with my heartbreak story on the table between us, held in by two glasses of whiskey, and you saying, "I think we should drink these until we fall over." I remember you fixed everything with that one sentence. (and an $80 bar tab). I remember you never let me pay for our meals. I remember the sound of your breathing. I remember what it sounded like, right before you start to talk. The air always seemed charged with your energy, your vibrancy, your joy. I remember joy was a physical thing around you. It picked you up in a crushing bear hug, it carried you along.

I remember the way the faint lines of your cheek curled up to meet the folds of your ear, a rosebud pink. Your big hands. I remember you dancing in the kitchen. I remember your gratitude. I remember your patient enthusiasm when I discovered something you'd learned decades earlier. I remember your infinite compassion. I try to reenact it, but it always seems forced, not my natural state. I remember you saying it is work. But you have to work at it. It's work that is worthy of the effort. I keep working.