Yes, I remember you. After you were killed my biggest fear was that people wouldn't remember you. And you were too fabulous to forget.
I remember your enormous brown eyes and all that dark hair. I remember puffy cheeks and the cutie-mit-a-do song. I remember you crawling out of the bathtub and putting on your sandals with the pearls in the strap, and your floral hat. (I still have both!) Completely naked inbetween, but you didn't care, as the hat and shoes were all you needed at 20 months old.
I remember you following me around the house waving your tomes-du-jour at me saying, "Booka booka booka booka booka?" I remember you on the floor asking, "Down?" "You are down, sweetie." "Up?!" "Oh, UP!" I remember "TEAM!" being requested from the back seat as we drove southbound through the intersection at Dobson and Guadalupe - as you knew there was a frozen yogurt shop there and it was close enough to ice cream to get your vote of approval. That's my girl.
I remember you charming chocolate donuts from your grandfather, the sweetest coffee from your great-grandmother, and pan de juevo from anyone who had it. But it had to be a whole one. Half or a quarter was too insulting.
I remember you singing "Kiss them for me, I may be delayed . . .", and I remember you saying, "Bless you, Mommy" for the first time after I sneezed - the night before you were killed.