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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. |
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