Something is Missing, Sharon Hajj

I Remember Her

by Sharon Hajj

I remember her when I see someone eating Skittles.

We would go to the corner store before school to buy Skittles for math class.

We did pre-algebra problems while the colors burst in our mouths.

I should send her a letter.

I remember her when I hear someone talk about their friend moving away.

The corners of our states touched, holding on to our delicate connection.

But the miles weighed down the thinnest of threads before smothering them altogether.

I should find her new address.

I remember her when a friend gets married, has a child, or gets divorced.

On a trip, I reconnected with her briefly only to learn of heartache and trauma.

Keep in touch. Promises from both sides were broken.

I should reach out to her.

I remember her when someone talks about reuniting with an old friend and it feels like no time has passed.

It was true with us when we had hours of conversation over coffee.   

Our children finally met and I got caught up on the next part of her life.

I should send her a message.

I feel like a part of me is missing.

I remember her when her birthday passes, a day she shares with a holiday.

Her Facebook page held a heavy silence that engulfed the truth,

The dreaded truth, which I found when I searched for an obituary.

I should have kept in touch.