My Memory of Fire

(an email to a friend as I began the process of eulogizing Hannah)

2. I find that as I try to remember her, things have become blurred. It's like my head is full of memory but something won't let it come out. I know it should be there, but it's gone. Or buried. As I eek out bits and pieces she's starting to come back but it is all fragmented. I remember she loved to wear tutus when she was a toddler. I remember a picture of her and my sister, Syneva, sitting in matching mini rocking chairs, kissing each other on the lips.  I remember them building this crazy fort together in the woods out of animal bones and an old toilet seat. I remember her recounting the story of when her brother got pulled over when we were all in the van. I remember her worrying about getting her mom's hips. I remember her freckles. I remember her reaching out to me about 6 months before she died. She was excited about life. Going to massage therapy school. She had come out on the other side of some hard times, and I was really happy for her and happy to hear her sounding like herself again. There are so many gaps.

I don't know if this is what lost memory feels like or if this is something else, but it certainly is strange to think about someone you love and have massive holes and dark, murky waters submerging things you know are there.