I Forget Everything, But The Red Light Bulb.

I can't remember a lot of the important things.  Things like my first soccer game or those daddy daughter dates I used to love.  I can't remember when my sister was born or when I met my best friend or when I got my first kiss.

But I do remember the color of his eyes and the knots on the tree trunk we were standing next to.  I remember the smell of the flowers he put in my hands, and the way the clouds made the mountains look like a painting.  I can remember the way my hair danced, like it was made to dance.

I remember kicking rocks around and laying down on the asphalt, just because it was warm.  And something about that made my fingertips wiggle.  And you traced my shape with chalk, but it just looked like a blob.  And we never stopped laughing about that.

I remember being scared, but still wanting to run.  As far as I could.  Until nothing looked familiar and everything was bigger than me.  Like, at least three times bigger.

I remember feeling important.  Like things wouldn't be the same without me, so I stayed.  I remember liking that, and never wanting it to go away.  But I remember when it did.

And I remember the dirty windows and how they made everything look really plain.  And I never wanted to go outside.  I remember the blue corduroy couch and the hiding spot behind it.  I remember sitting there, hidden and nervous, waiting for something to happen.  Anything.  And I remember waiting for a very long time.

And I remember the garden and the play house that smelled like moths, and the loft on top of the living room and the tea parties I never had, the fireplace, the double oven kitchen, the changed locks, and the red light bulb that never went out, even when all the other lights did.  And I remember thinking that it was stupid, because it didn't know it's place.  But neither did I.  So I guess that makes me stupid, too.

I'm stupid too.

Me with my broken mouth and cracked eyes, remembering all the things that never really mattered.