April 30, 2019

remember me

When I last saw Kelly and her sister, we lathered our faces in beauty creams and were
parading around my apartment on the corner of Lyon and Jackson. They were seven
and nine; I wasn’t yet 30. Later, trolling the aisles of the grocery store for treats, they 
pretended I was their mother. So when Kelly’s note arrives - “Remember me?” - 
I am back at the candy display at that CalMart on California Avenue with two 
pony-tailed daughters tugging at my wrists, golden afternoon light winking 
through the fog. The memory feels sharp after such a long absence, or perhaps because
Kelly’s old enough for a fiancé and a life in Seattle, and her sister has a 6-month-old son,
or because even through her note I can hear Kelly’s tiny voice, which is to say I can hear
my voice, and I answer back, Yes! Yes! because once a mother, always a mother.