I Remember . . .
Sitting in the bucket seat of my father's bicycle riding through endless apple orchards.
Eating cherry tomatoes out of my grandmother's neighbor's garden and feeling (slightly) guilty about it.
Sitting on the corner of the counter top watching my mother cook, the cabinet doors beneath clamoring rhythmically as I mindlessly swung my legs as we chatted.
Riding through the upper-jungle in Peru, oblivious to the noise of the crowded bus as I pressed my nose up against the window. Scenes of lush green, winding tributaries, and the treasure I was on the lookout for: the seldom road-side grass hut and glimpse of life, blurred before my eyes, glowing in the fog of my breath on the window.
Observing my own grandmother, herself robbed by Alzheimer's of the memory of our names, familiar places, and the how-to of day-to-day tasks, humming along to an old hymn on the radio . . . one thing, at least, she still holds onto.