It feels like all I can do is remember. It feels like all I have are the memories.

It feels like maybe it was all a hypnogogic hallucination, a pre-sleep dream, a vision.

But it still hurts.

I think about her, and what do I remember? All I can really do is remember since she isn't a part of my life anymore. Or is that being too harsh...I don't know. I don't think I could be too harsh to someone I held in such high esteem for so long. Someone who was made into my hero. My idol. My apprentice of sorts who could do no wrong. And now I am left with wondering, with memories, with dreams.

We're sitting in her car, listening to some of the first techno music ever...on cassettes. Nobody had CD's yet. She is showing me some early rave dancing, hands flowing in a continuous circle to the rhythm of the music. But only at stop lights. I can't help but think that it looks silly. But I can't help but smile and ask for a copy of the tape to play in my tape-deck-alarm-clock.

We're sitting at the kitchen table as she paints. I always loved her artwork. A single rose sprouts out of a cracked heart. I watch, mesmerized by the brush strokes, the movement of the hand, the precise placement of every line of paint. I wanted to do art just like her, and tried my best...but never showing her my sad attempts because I knew they were not up to her standards.

We're on the porch as she gives me a hug, and I don't really understand. I know she is going somewhere, with someone, but none of it is too clear to me. I watch as she slowly makes her way to the white pickup truck and hear my dad crying. My dad never cries.

::

I'm sitting in my car, listening to techno...on CD. Nobody has cassettes anymore. I can't help but wave my hands in the flowing continuous motion so popular now in raving. But only at stop lights. I can't help but think I look silly. But still, I can't help but smile and remember.

I'm sitting at the kitchen table as I paint. I always loved art. A single heart with a hand reaching towards it. I watch as the brush hits the canvas, the brush strokes are made, and each line of paint is precisely placed. I try my best to paint to the caliber I expect of myself, and I can't help but remember.

I'm on the porch as I remember the last hug I had from her...the one that nearly made me cry. I know she is somewhere, with someone, but none of it is too clear to me. I've never seen my dad cry since that day. I walk past the laundry room and see the hole my brother punched in the wall out of frustration, and I can't help but remember.

I can't help but remember.

And I hope one day new memories will be made.

I hope beyond hope that she will be more than a memory to me.