But I remembered You

I read the news today, oh boy.

I read your obituary.

I had to sit down.

A song kept moving through my mind as I read, its words arriving before I knew what they were trying to tell me.

And suddenly I was seven years old again.

I was in Karen’s house—your house—the house next door to my grandmother’s, in that little town where we could cross the main street by ourselves and wander in and out of each other’s houses.
​I could see your mother in the kitchen, stirring something in a pot. I could hear music coming from somewhere in the house—your brother’s music—and your little sister running through the room before disappearing again.

Karen and I were sitting with colored paper and crayons, making something. Maybe we were writing a story. Maybe we were drawing. I don’t remember exactly what we were making. But I remember the paper. I remember the colors. I remember being there.

And you were there too.

You were Karen’s older sister, and you were simply part of that world. You were older than us, old enough to understand things we didn’t. You knew me when I was still that little girl who had her mother, and you knew me after my mother died. You knew me before we moved in with my grandmother, before everything changed, before I became someone I didn’t yet know how to be.

You were there. Karen was there. Your mother and father were there. Your brothers and sisters were there. You witnessed something in my life that very few people ever witnessed, and none of us could have known then how much those years would stay with me.

When I read your obituary, I wasn’t consciously thinking about any of that. I was simply there again. I was seven. I could see the kitchen. I could see your mother cooking. I could hear the music. I could see the colored paper on the table. I could feel what it was like to be in that house.

It was almost like being inside a dream I had forgotten I had been carrying. I wasn’t trying to remember you. I was simply with you again.

And then, in a flash, I wasn’t seven anymore. I was me. I was here. I was now. And I had a life. I had things to do.

There was dinner to make. Astrid needed to be fed. I had clients. I had work waiting, the way it always waits. So I got up. I fed the dog. I started dinner. I went on with my day.

But you stayed with me.

Later, when everything was quiet, I started thinking about the life I didn’t know—your life. Your children. Your grandchildren. Your brothers and sisters. Your mother, still with us. Your father, already gone. He taught Bible study at the church next door to my grandmother’s. For two weeks every summer, I was allowed to go there too. It was not my family’s church, but I was welcomed because of the connection and respect between our families.

I never saw the rest of your life. I knew you then: Karen’s sister, the older girl somewhere around us while we were growing up. I don’t know what you loved, what made you laugh, what worried you, what your children remember most, or what kind of grandmother you were. I only knew you before all of that happened.

And yet, when I read your name, I remembered you.

I remembered your family. I remembered your mother at the stove. I remembered the music. I remembered the crayons and the colored paper and the stories we made. I remembered being welcomed into your family—a family that was not mine, but that somehow became part of me anyway.

I remembered a time when I was very young and didn’t understand what was happening around me, even though I was feeling all of it. I didn’t have words for any of it then. I only knew that I liked being there.

Forty-plus years is a long time.

I don’t know if you remembered me.

I was Karen’s little friend. I was one of the children who came through your house and sat at your table. You had a whole life to live, and I was one small person in the world around you. Maybe you remembered me. Maybe you didn’t. I honestly don’t know.

But I remembered you.

And I think that is what I wanted to say goodbye to you about. Not the woman whose obituary I read, because I never knew that woman. I know there was a whole life there, and I am glad you had it.

But I knew you then.

And you knew me.

You knew me when I had my mother. You knew me after I didn’t. You knew me before we moved in with my grandmother, before the world I understood changed and I had to figure out who I was in the middle of it. You were older. You saw things I didn’t understand yet. And you, and Karen, and your family were part of that time in my life.

I just know that I read your obituary, and there you were.

And here I am.

Still remembering.

Goodbye, and thank you.
Until we meet again.  

About the Author

Jennifer Belanger is an intuitive practitioner and spirit medium based in Pittsfield, Massachusetts. She offers in-person, virtual, and emailed tarot readings, Lenormand readings, spirit communication sessions, and spiritual guidance.
​
You can find her information at www.energytouchintuition.com