I catch a glimmer.


Sometimes it’s every other day, sometimes a week or two can go by, sometimes even a month. However, “every now and then” I will catch a glimmer of you.

Random moments throughout ordinary seconds of my days it will happen. For a moment, I flashback.

I flashback to the moment where I’m 7 years old again. The moment where I am sitting in a hard wooden kitchen chair just outside the den and my wet stringy hair lays perfectly combed across my back as you cut my hair with the scissors I was never allowed to cut magazines up with. Mom and you are talking about things that I don’t quite understand. I flash back to hearing your contagious laugh in perfect harmony with moms. I catch a glimmer of you.

I flashback to riding passenger in moms bright greenish-blue sunfire up your long driveway listening to the pebbles that consumed your yard toss around the wheels of the car. You come strolling out of the house through the back door that leads to your driveway and I see your face as you walk across the porch in your jean mini skirt waving us inside. I catch a glimmer of you.

I flashback to Thanksgiving at Nanny’s house where mom accidentally takes a bite out of the dressing with onions. We giggle as mom runs across the crowded kitchen, mouth wide open, towards the trash can to spit it out as fast as she can. I’m sitting in your lap in a scratchy sweater that you and mom tried to convince me that I looked so cute in. We giggle, and you let my hair out of it’s pony tail and start braiding it as we wait for the kitchen to clear to make our plates. I catch a glimmer of you.

I flashback to moments before my first pageant where you and mom were cracking jokes to one another about the other pageant moms. Another mom leans in to one of the judges across the room where we were all getting ready and we all three sit and watch as the judge walks towards the corner of the room where we were making the final touches on hair and makeup. The judge says something about how wigs are not allowed in pageants and you bark back at the defense that my hair is just that naturally beautifully, and as he walks away we giggle because I’m really wearing a partial hair clip that you got for me. I flashback to winning my first pageant and hearing you scream “Hell yeah! That’s my baby!” in a room full of family members and over-makeuped 6 year olds. I catch a glimmer of you.

I flashback to moments at Bailey Park where I took my shoes off and raced across the parking lot with Chandler, and for a moment I can feel the rough warm pavement on the bottoms of my bare feet. You’re sitting on the bench wearing the biggest round sunglasses that took up half of your face with your knees crossed sipping on a fountain drink from the gas station Papaw had his heart attack years before. I catch a glimmer of you.

For just a moment, I catch these glimmers of you. And for a few seconds of my day I am living in a world where you still exist. I try to prolong these glimmers, reaching out trying to save the memory forever, but as soon as I grasp it, it slips away. And it is just a glimmer.


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