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Clementine thinks of her parents every day. She thinks of Lee, too, but it’s different, somehow. The two exist in different worlds: her parents are the before, and Lee is the after. When she feels sad, she misses her mom carding her fingers through her hair. When she feels sick, she misses her dad’s arms around her, carrying her up to her bed. When she finds an old book in an abandoned car with a babyseat, she thinks of being sandwhiched between them as they read to her. She misses them so fiercely sometimes she feels it in her chest like a vice, and has to take a few seconds to find herself again. It’s been years, but she doesn’t tell herself she shouldn’t feel this way anymore. She would hate it if she didn’t. She doesn’t want to forget, doesn’t want to think of them and feel nothing. She thinks about them every day, and she will for the rest of her life.
When she thinks of Lee, it’s in different circumstances. She’s not afraid of a walker by itself, but when she’s in a tight spot, caught between two, she wishes Lee was there, if only to tell her she was doing great. When she’s starving she thinks of Lee teaching her how to open a can without a can opener. Whenever she feels the cool metal of a gun in her hands she thinks of Lee, covering her ears, guiding her to shoot straight and steady. When she misses Lee it’s her stomach churning, closing her eyes and seeing him slumped against the wall. It’s wondering if there was something she could’ve done differently, if maybe she hadn’t run off — but she was just a kid, and although she’s not much older now, she already understands it makes a difference.
She’s only 11, but she’s not a kid anymore. She doesn’t need someone to take care of her, doesn’t want anyone to. Clementine knows she can make it out there, if she has to. It doesn’t make her miss her parents less, or wish Lee was there any less.
Clementine just deals. She feels what she feels, pushes it aside when her survival requires it, and when she looks at the picture of Lee, the drawing of Kenny, Katjaa and Duck — she makes a point of thinking of her parents, too, despite their faces becoming blurred messes, turning into rotten, swollen cheeks and broken teeth. She doesn’t have a picture, but she has the vice in her chest when she comes across her mother’s favorite kind of chocolate, her father’s favorite magazine.
It’s good enough.