Miss you. Would like you to try and teach me how to sew (again).

Miss you.  Miss your wise, wiry, smooth fingers touching and moving down embroidered fabric, opening your mouth to talk about distant lands and people I’ve never met.  You looked at me with such seriousness; I almost could have laughed but didn’t dare. 

Can we sit on the couch and mindlessly watch Mr. Bean again?  Watch his dumb life and look over at each other and laugh with eyebrows raised at such silliness.  I inherited your eyebrows, you know.  I also inherited your wild dark curls that shout in laughter at any attempt to tame them.  The silk handkerchiefs sit in my yellow painted dresser, reminding me of you.  The brown and tan and yellowed hats hang haphazardly on my wall, waiting for someone to wear them freely, just like you did.  It’s been a year, and it might as well have been forever.  Where did the rabbits go that were fed lettuce and fruit by you? I hope they found another kind soul.  

Miss you.  Come and bake banana bread again?  I smelled it almost every time I opened your door and heard the chimes that welcomed me; heard the call of your voice, laced with concern and compassion.  You had the room on the far end of the hall; that room was filled with enough fabric to clothe the entire apartment building.  Could you teach me again?  I would sit, quietly, I promise.  We could listen to the grass singing again.  It sang for you after the light rain last spring, and it could do it again.

Miss you and your tiny heels that made you sit above the rest of the world.  You always believed the best of us.  Miss you and the tears running down your face when you laughed.  Miss you and the stern, pursed lips you gave us when you didn’t agree.  Miss you and the whole banana you put in the fruit bowl, concerned as you always were that we didn’t have enough food.  I still think about that banana.  Come and cut one up this time, and we’ll eat it together, or I’ll eat it in front of you and watch your delighted eyes shine.  Miss you and your suspicion.  (Oh, I forgot to tell you – I inherited that too.)  Miss you and how you made the world brighter and more generous. You would have bought the moon and all of the stars for us, if you could.  Miss you and how you made us a family.  Miss you and the glue that you were to these chaotic pieces.  Miss you.  It’s almost Thanksgiving; almost Christmas.  The lights aren’t as bright when you aren’t here. You had a way of making the world around you dance with joy.