A Love Missive

If you don’t think of me in a thousand years,

I will think of you a thousand times in an hour.

- Christina Lamb

Memories can easily go by me in a blur, but there are those that have insistently grown more powerful with passing time because they have enabled me to overcome the disjunction of a seriously literal life.

Here is a litany of some of those moments. Hopefully you’ll remember and recognize yourself in them.

1.

You cried upon seeing a photo of yourself with a walrus at the zoo – because you thought you were a walrus. You said my teeth were yellow, so I got them professionally whitened, pronto! I was late going back home from school one day and was speeding, knowing that you would have arrived already from kindergarten class. All the while, I was distressed, certain that you would be wandering the streets like the tear-stained waif from Les Miserables. To my relief, I found you waiting, nonchalantly sprawled on the daisies in the front garden. I was petrified when I spotted you sharing popsicle licks with White Paw. Pawie, as you called him, was a bunny. We smelled perfumes at Smitty’s and ran after the ice cream man.

2.

You said my face was heart-shaped and my mouth was small. You compared me to a dandelion that blew where the wind would blow. We got spectacularly lost on the streets of London, but made a pact to not tell anyone about it. You often invited me on a shopping spree at Ross, but you never brought your wallet. You were mad at me one time, so you wrote a letter - my first name on the envelope - alleging that you were adopted. You said we lived on the edge of the world because of the view of a chasm and an endless sky from the bend on the road.

3.

You both laughed when I said, Bring down stuff from the car – wrong idiom! - and at my mispronunciation of Cheezwhiz. You left the crust off your chicken pot pies because you knew that I loved to eat crusts. We went through cycles of gerbils, goldfish, and bunnies – delighting in their little lives and mourning their demise in a wee graveyard marked with popsicle sticks.

4.

You’re a master humorist. I laughed even when the joke was on me – like that time when you announced that Mother’s Day had been canceled. I wanted a mink coat for Christmas. Alleging your support of non-cruelty to animals, you bought instead a faux fur one from Price Club. You surprised me with a fancy bedroom set – all oak and mirrors, and lit like a Las Vegas marquee. You let me take the only cell phone in the house when I first drove to a synagogue for my Hebrew class. The place was only seven miles away. You let me copy your answers to the Disciple class homework because I couldn’t figure out the answers to the life application questions. You cleaned our toilets because you knew that I hated doing that. On Christmas and New Year’s Eve and sundry wine parties, you’d get me Moscato or Asti Spumanti because alcohol made me incoherent. You’re goofy despite the smarts; vulnerable behind the stoic stance.

Need I say more?

You have each filled the displacements and absurdities of my life with joyful, sometimes silly, distractions. 

You have given substance to my otherwise meaningless moments. 

You have given me salvation. 

You are the memory that makes me smile.