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I remember
forming sticky popcorn balls with my hands
(even though I hate touching food with my fingers)
and the way my aunt’s auburn hair
framed her face.
I remember
Barton folding oily pizza slices in half
(I had on a red and white ringer tee that day)
and painting portraits with watercolors
i had made from lake mud.
I remember
a chubby brown pony who would dump me in the sheep fields
(and who also won me many blue ribbons)
and denying my grandmother the chance
to take my photograph.
I remember
slipping my feet into my dad’s old leather boat shoes
(a pair that has as many holes as I do years)
and the sweater I was wearing the first time
I held my baby sister.
I remember
recreating my handwriting style every few months
(just to keep my teacher’s on their toes)
and the feel of the sheepskin covered seats
in my mother’s Peugot.
I remember
not ever being the cool kid in school
(which I think I am grateful for now)
and the day that my best friend
moved away.
I remember
the moment my parents first saw my tattoo
(“You know that you are stuck with that for life”)
and the way your fingers tangled in mine
as we walked to our favorite restaurant, or anywhere.
I remember
the music that played through my car stereo
(for all 800 miles)
and confirming that I really can only rely
on myself.
And after I type this last word
I will remember
sitting on the front porch
(as I now often do, and)
writing this about those times in my life
that I may, or may not, want to remember.
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