Remembering.

I remember when I very first saw you. I thought you were very pulled together, if you know what I mean.
I remember your peach jammies and your light brown hair in curlers. You sitting on your bed and talking with an endless smile to one of your many boyfriends.
I remember your brown eyes, like shiny, precious stones.
I remember you yelling at me because I couldn't speak your language and I would pester you constantly to help me. I'd argue with you about how to say something, confident you didn't understand what I wanted to say. Of course, you were always right-there aren't direct translations for so many things. It took me months to accept this.
I remember your smile, your energy, when you came bounding into the dinning room with a pair of tiny white shorts on. "They fit!" you said as you lifted your hands in the air and twirled in a circle. It surprised me weight mattered that much to you.
I remember your hands, graceful and brown. Your middle fingers short as your pinkies, but somehow the deformity made you more feminine, more alluring.
I remember you playing the piano. I think you hated it.
I remember wondering why you were so rude to me. Your mom said you were jealous.
I remember later, after I had moved out, coming back and finding you in your room. You seemed annoyed to see me, but in a sisterly way that made me stay. I told you my problem; you listened but didn't say much.
I remember you asking me to play the guitar and sing, "The Nails in Your Hands" over and over and over.
I remember talking to you for the last time on the phone. I can't remember if you said you had a boyfriend or not.
And then I remember sliding down my bedroom wall when they called to tell me you had died. I sat on the floor and didn't want them to hang up, but they did eventually, after they were sure I wasn't alone.