That's What I Remember by Shelli Lynch Shucking corn and shelling beans in lawn chairs, that's what I remember. Whenever we are faced with the possibility of a loved one's death, we are apt to recall the strangest and simplest things about them. It becomes difficult to sift through the years of words and touches in order to find that one bold comment, that one significant caress. We grapple with the idea that we should be able to remember. But, what remains genuine is the fact that we can't remember that one time, that one word because our lives were saturated by them, so much so that one memory doesn't come to mind, a thousand do. Moving her glasses, her Guidepost, and her Bible to dust the coffee table; that's what I remember. Each family has their leader. One who sits silently and directs traffic from their velvet chair with a simple gesture. True leaders of families never shout, they almost sing their lullaby of wisdom. It seeps into our thoughts late at night when the cicadas are wooing us to sleep. Their stories told repeatedly, their legend born. Watching her hands along the dark green yarn, that's what I remember. Beauty does not reside in those things that we merely find aesthetically appealing. Rather, it floats amid the seemingly insignificant observances of daily habits. The reflection of those steal, blue eyes behind the large reading glasses. The ridges of strong, creamy fingers working a stitch. The curve of a slender, Southern neck as it dips closer to the steaming stew for judgment. One can travel the world in search of ancient beauty and never find any as delicate as the Taylor eyes. Her smell of peppermint and warm tea, that's what I remember. To a child, being protected is never as appreciated as when they grow older and simply reflect upon its presence. Falling off of your bike and lying in that big, four-poster bed watching her shoulders flex beneath thinning skin while making you comfortable can make you sigh when you're ten and cry when you are twenty-eight. Standing by your bedside while you recover from what seemed like Hell itself may be fleeting when you are eighteen, but will sustain your grief when you are thirty-six. Her smile on your forehead as she kisses the pain away may never have been seen during your youth, but now, it wakes you in the morning and tells you of a woman who simply loved you eternally. She will never have her own profile in the Sunday paper. She will never be a household name. Many will share her memory, yet there are those that will never be that lucky. We house her stories in our hearts as sad, funny, adventurous and brave; yet, they will never be printed nor sold. The world will go on with those in it who never had the pleasure of hearing her laugh. Ours is an oral tradition of downy syllables crooning through the ages of a woman and her life here on Earth. Ours is a song of the South and its truest legend. Watching her love us, that's what I remember. mzmouser@attbi.com ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ "Time's fun when you're having flies." -Kermit the Frog