A Longing for Memory's Past

I want to remember this.

This sidewalk that has approximately one hundred cracks and one hundred chances to break your mother's back.

This scent that smells like home, like mom, like dad, like me.  I want to remember this.

I want to remember The Tree that's hidden to the world and sometimes from me.  I wan't to remember the shapes and dried spit and other gross things about it.

I'll remember Kholer's and definitely not Ridley's.

I'll remember the two lane street and definitely not five.

I'll remember 4800 West and definitely not Lone Peak Parkway or No. County Boulevard.

I want to remember this the way it was.

The way the ice cream truck used to come every week.

The way we'd travel in packs to The Gully.

The way the day smelled differently from the night.

I want to remember the Big Dipper and pretending to see the Little Dipper.

I want to remember trailer roofs and truth or dare and fleeting friends.

I want to remember this.

I'm going to remember the rusting swing-set when it wasn't rusty.

I'm going to remember carving hearts and initials and secret codes into trees.

I'm going to remember T and C and the way we laughed and fought and lived and be reminded that we don't do that anymore.

I'm going to remember my childhood for what it was and not what it isn't or is now.

I'm going to remember this.

And when I'm away and feeling grown up, I'll remember my brothers belittling me because they've always made me feel like a child.

But I'll also remember magic and karate and dragons in the basement.

I'll remember haunted houses and wigs and old ladies.

I'll remember the things I was never a part of because I was the nosy little sister who didn't belong.

But I'll remember that they still loved me anyway.