BURN (Wattys2015?)

little things

Even when you forget someone's face, their smile, their voice, their walk...there are strange little things you can't forget.
I can't remember your face and smile except in pictures. I can't remember your voice, so sometimes I listen to that old voicemail box we had, to hear you speak to me about George's birthday party, or what grocery items we needed, or that you won't be home until later. (the rain check is what gets me, because I know that you'll never be home)
I can't remember how you walked, except sometimes when I see someone on the street, I think they're walking how you probably did. That left foot sway.
I remember little things, quite vividly.
Like how you would always try to weirdest sounding flavour when we got ice cream, and how you hated when it sprinkled outside because you wanted it to pour. And how you would lean out the bathroom window and smoke, thinking I wouldn't know. I knew, and I would get so mad at you, because I hate the smell of cigarette smoke (which is ironic considering how I chain smoke myself).
I remember you liked your drinks mixed a certain way, otherwise you wanted them straight and pure.
I remember you loved animals, and always wanted to pet any animal you came across.
You loved music. You would sing at the top of your lungs in my car, and when other people rode with us, you would look so angry and uncomfortable that you couldn't scream the lyrics. You were constantly mouthing along to some tune in your head.
You had a red dress you would wear to every family occasion, and you always matched it with the little dolphin earring I got you for your eighteenth birthday.
I remember you loved children, and desperately wanted some of your own. You begged me to try, but I was scared and unprepared. And when you finally got pregnant, you realized you were scared, too.  You never told me you were pregnant that time.
You had no impulse control, and you made split second decisions all the time. I take a while to sit and think about my choices, and you were always so impatient with me.
You made the bed a certain way, tucking in the blankets with military precision. But at night you pulled all your hard work out, because you thought the sheets constrained you. You hated anything that threatened your freedom.
You were the exact opposite of me. Wild, carefree, loud, and incredibly interesting. Captivating.
I was quieter, more reserved. Bland.
At least, that's what I thought.
But we worked so well together. And we fought so well together, and against each other.
I can't forget the little things. I can't forget them, so in strange way, I've almost become you. I like what you liked, I talk how you talked, I am who you were.
It's the little things.