Ever since you left, my memory has gotten worse.
I don't know if that is part of grief, but it worries me how bad my memory is. Which also scares me. I don't want to forget anything about you. Somethings I try not to think about; like how you looked when you were sick. But I never want to forget how soft your hair was, or how you looked when the nurses shaped your hair into a mohawk.
I don't want to forget your tiny, wrinkly toes.
Or your gorgeous dark, blue eyes. Or the way you fell asleep in my arms the day of your operation, one arm cocked out to the side, snoring.
That memory makes me smile.
I'm scared because my memories are all I have left of you and I feel like they are slipping away.
I don't know if that is part of grief, but it worries me how bad my memory is. Which also scares me. I don't want to forget anything about you. Somethings I try not to think about; like how you looked when you were sick. But I never want to forget how soft your hair was, or how you looked when the nurses shaped your hair into a mohawk.
I don't want to forget your tiny, wrinkly toes.
Or your gorgeous dark, blue eyes. Or the way you fell asleep in my arms the day of your operation, one arm cocked out to the side, snoring.
That memory makes me smile.
I'm scared because my memories are all I have left of you and I feel like they are slipping away.
