I Remember Her

Always

She loved.

She cared.

She protected.

I always believed she was invincible. I mean, who doesn’t believe that she is? One of my fondest memories of her is her morning ritual: once her eyes open she starts moving her arms, then her legs. There’s a science to it as she methodically moves through each movement separately, like she’s oiling a machine, getting it ready to go. It’s 5 am. As the ballad continues, she finds herself standing, still moving. I always looked on in curiosity, bewilderment even, as her silhouette danced not in fragile frames, but in bold, strong images.

I remember her.

Years later, she would find herself in a weakened state. Older, of course wiser, and just a tad slower. I was also older, also wiser, but this time stronger. A brief but seemingly long stint at the hospital shoved worry into our hearts, but she came home. I didn’t live there anymore, but it was still home. And the following morning, my memories of her invincibility rushed back. It was 5 am. I looked on in the exact same bewilderment as she hesistated not even once in entering her morning ritual. She moved almost effortlessly from head to toe. Arms and legs stretched, and the machine was being prepped. I remember my heart filling with such joy. She inspired me always. She was invincible.

I remember her. I always will.