Lola

I take out the old-fashioned dress in my mother’s closet. It’s a rose-colored fabric that you liked from your 50’s pageant. And its floral scent underneath reminded me about you for a reason. I got mad each time I learned you skipped a Christmas season. The only thing I have is your pretty face in my silver locket. Your memory is hanging from my neck; I wish not to drop it. I could still see us picnicking in the small backyard, There I stand next to you and pretend to be a bodyguard. Gray was the shade of your hair; I revered it in my sleep. You look like your favorite actress, you called her Meryl Streep. I could have touched the way you pinched my hand in the hospital room. But I can still see you sitting on an empty chair – I assume.