“You remember my jacket.”
Noah’s mouth opened.
More arrived.
“I bought Leah that ceramic bird. She hated it.”
“She still has it.”
“Emma dared Clara to eat sand.”
“Clara did.”
“You washed her mouth out with bottled water.”
“I panicked.”
Noah began laughing.
Then crying.
The memories did not come neatly.
They spilled.
The beach house.
The broken toaster.
Leah arguing with the landlord.
A card game after the girls slept.
Noah’s feet in my lap.
The drive home through heavy rain.
He covered his mouth with his right hand.
“I remember you.”
I moved closer.
His face crumpled.
“I can see you.”
The words broke me open.
I took him into my arms.
Noah held me with both arms now, his recovering left one weak but determined.
“I remember your face when the alarm went off,” he said against my chest. “You looked furious. And then you laughed because I was laughing.”
“I remember.”
“I can feel it.”
