left to right, Aunt Elizabeth with David, Uncle Robert, Grandpa MD, Uncle Hugh, Grandma Elizabeth, Simon, Lura, Mom holding my baby Dakota
Lura
I miss you. Are you reading this? Do you let yourself think of me? Do you like me, or the idea of me? Do you remember how we used to go to that coffee shop in Pacific Beach; I would bring my journal and you a sketch pad. We'd sit and people watch and draw and write and talk and debate and both of us were carrying a sadness so profound in the presence of one another that it shook my hands. Like a coffee cup on a saucer. And still all those Friday nights, Mom watched Dakota, and we went. Why did we do that?
I went because I wanted to know you as a person. But I could not. I could only watch you. Your over-sized blue eyes and long thick lashes. Like Ever's. Your long, lean legs and arms, like Lola. Your small mouth. Your full cheeks. Your intellect a visible light.
I am not our past. I am not a ghost. I am just myself, an occasionally extremely neurotic, loving, devoted, hard working writer/mother/wife who likes organics, ice cream cake, music, movies, the opening to Rescue Me, Sylvia Plath and a moment of quiet in the bathroom. I also like soaps shaped like castles. I miss you.
I want to see you. I want to hold you. I would take being in the same room as you, or even on the same block. I would stand on one end of the street and you the other, and I would wave softly at you so as not to scare you away. I would sit down and cross my legs and wait to see if you would make your way to me. I would wait until you did, or until you left.
I miss you.
My daughters are sisters. Lola asks about you more often now. She's nine. She looks so much like you.
I love you
Maggie May
