DRAFT: This module has unpublished changes.

       I Remember Her




I remember my cousins and I cramped up in a photo booth

taking a picture before flying to Miami by ourselves to visit her,   summer of ‘98.
I remember the Bahamas cruise, lying on a white hammock wrapped in her arms.
I remember lying on her queen size bed drinking strawberry

milk from a baby bottle.
I remember my cousin drowning in a pool and her running,

crying and screaming for help in Spanish.
I remember trying to catch lizards and playing with snails

outside her pink and white apartment. I remember she always carried a napkin, folded so she could spit in it.
I remember her curly, frizzy, short black hair. Her head always moving like a bobble head.
I remember her painting on the wall of the three elephants. Elephants were everywhere at her apartment.
I remember the annoying sound of her asthma machine. She put on every night before going to sleep.
I remember her brown wooden cabinet filled with a hundred different kinds of prescription pills she took.
I remember the last time I saw her at my aunts’ house, when I walked down the stairs and didn’t say hi to her. She grabbed me by my shirt and went to go hit me.
I remember the last phone call we had and I told her I would go

fly down, to see her in Miami next summer.
I remember that phone call I got one year ago when my father told me my grandmother passed away.



                                                                         M E L I S S A   M A R U L A N D A





DRAFT: This module has unpublished changes.