Crickets

The thought strikes her as she sips her coffee, listening to the commotion of crickets outside the screen door.

“Isn’t it strange what you remember?

You remember what you want to remember, I think.”

For her, it is that time long ago, when grandmothers are little girls and memories are sepia-toned.

She spent summers just like this one, idling away on her family farm.

“I loved summers at the farm.”

She spent summers just like this one, sipping sweet, strong coffee in swampy humidity.

“My grandparents thought they were doing me a favor.”

She spent summers just like this one, sleeping to the sound of those crickets.

“Some people think they are annoying, but I think they are nice.”

I fight back tears.

Isn’t it strange what you remember?

The crickets still sing as I wait this morning, wait for her to wake up.

They sing as if to say, isn’t it strange?

Isn’t it strange to be forgotten?

I grasp for memories, greedily holding onto double to make up for hers.

I remember.

I remember the screech of her tires in the middle school parking lot

The iridescent purple Thunderbird, giant sunglasses, bottled blonde hair piled high

the hiss of the air conditioner blasting, because “the heat just doesn’t agree with me”

the way Elvis crooned about the memory that strays to a brighter day

the sound of her laugh as she told me to “hold on” whenever she’d make a left-hand turn,

checking her lipstick in the rearview mirror.

I remember the way she used to be.

The way she used to remember me.

Will I remember this summer?

Will I, too, remember the crickets at my grandparents’ house?

You remember what you want to remember, I think.