Our Hearts Beat Like Thunder

No one is here but me and the summer thunderstorm raging outside my bedroom window. I touch the silver cross resting against my chest. When I close my eyes I can feel our hearts beat. I recall your laugh, warm like the summer wind, loud as the waves of the ocean. I remember burying my face in your shirt and crying because I was going to turn ten and I was never going to be in the single digits again. I remember when I brought my finger to you, swollen and purple, because I had wrapped the tag of my stuffed orca whale too tight around it. I remember screaming when you told me we had to cut it off. I thought you meant my finger. I remember you pinning me to the floor because you couldn’t reason with me and you needed to cut that tag off. Daughters never thank their mothers as much as they should.

I remember lazy days at the lake house, the taste of ripe red raspberries, the tangy smell of the sun kissed dock, the rumble of a twilight thunderstorm. I press my face against the flannel shirt you used to wear on lazy afternoons at home, the one you would sing John Mellencamp songs in, the one you would wear while watching John Wayne movies because he reminds you of your father. Some days I keep my memories locked away, hidden in a drawer of my mind, the key thrown away. Other days they escape leaving me with the sweet red smell of Montana cherries.

I wish I could tell you that I don’t blame you for my insecurities, that I always did know you were proud of me. I wish I could tell you that you should never be ashamed of your freckles because when I was little I thought you had them because someone had speckled you with fairy dust. I wish I could thank you for all those hours you spent with me in the hospital. In the darkest moments I was never truly alone because of you. I wish I could tell you the sweet, grassy smell of horses makes me think of you, that I smile when Hootie and the Blowfish come on the radio, that I still make myself grilled cheese sandwiches and tomato soup when I feel sad. I hope that you can hear me through this summer thunderstorm pounding against the speckled glass of my bedroom window.