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I dream of that day sometimes, the details faded and foggy like a frosted over window.
It was Summer (or was it Autumn? ), the heat bore upon our backs. My mother trusted my older sister to not lose me before ridding the house of us.
I remember being short, too short to climb into a chair at your dinner table.
My sister had to lift me onto the counter, the two of you giggling at unheard jokes tossed over my head as I explored the world previously unknown to me.
Suddenly, the dream shifts, and you're now holding a spoonful of applesauce to me. My favorite.
Obediently, I take a bite.
The evening (afternoon? The sunlight obscured your face all the same) stretched on with the quiet laughter of three children, the scrape of a plastic spoon sometimes joining the mix.
You turn to me, a question readied on your lips, and then I am awake.
Was it truly a memory? Has my mind simply deemed your dream a faux memory? I don't know.
Your face has faded, and I can't tell what color your eyes are any more. A shame really. I think it was the last time I'd looked someone in the eye and felt at ease.
Your hair, long and light, glowed in the sunlight, your other features simply blank slot. A clean slate.
Memory or not, I wonder how you've been after we'd left that day. Are doing well? Are you living the life that you want and need?
Do you remember me?
It's a silly question by now, especially if you're not even real, but I can't help asking it. Do you remember spending a lazy day in your kitchen, feeding me applesauce as you laughed with my sister?
I can still remember the taste of the applesauce you fed me all these years later.
It tasted like a sunset apple.
Sweet.