when you're fifteen

I can't remember the way her voice sounded when she said my name. I can't remember her laugh. I can't remember the last time I saw her laugh.

Uncle Joe called me kid. He would hug me from the side, and his voice was loud enough that it could fill the entire room with warmth. He was sturdy, and solid, and hard. But comforting, and protective. He was tall, and no matter how old I was I sill barely reached his shoulder. It's his laugh that I remember the most. He loved to laugh; no matter the time, place, or occasion, he was always making jokes or telling stories.

Uncle Vinnie called me toes. I think that's cause Patti did too. He would 'shark-attack' me in Uncle Jon's pool and tell me that each toe had a different flavor, and as I laughed he would nibble them and list them off. Uncle Vinnie was the first person to teach me to like mushrooms, and as I watched him create lunch in my Uncle's kitchen that I first learned that cooking was also an art.

But she was different. It was so long ago, and I was just a child then. It didn't occur to me that I should make an effort to remember these things. And now, sitting here, I can't remember the way my name sounded when you called me. You did thousands upon thousands of times; from the day I was born, until I was fifteen. And I just never knew. I never thought. I always had hope. Always thought just maybe it would go away. Maybe you'd be lucky enough to beat it. But here it sit almost seven years later, and I can't remember your laugh. I can't remember the way your voice sounded when you said my name. And I swear to God, I wish I could.