What does that mean?
I set it down as the answer hits me.
Digging in my pocket, I pull out my phone and find the app Lolly had Markie and me download a couple of years ago. She saw a television advertisement about digitizing her old home movies. Markie and I thought it was a scam. Lo and behold, six weeks later, all our memories were at the touch of a button.
I find the corresponding numbers on the tape. Tenth row down, fifth video over. I hit play.
The quality is grainy and the color washed out, but the little girl in the frame is clear. It’s me. I’m bending down to pick up a flower while Markie swings on the playset behind me.
My cheeks are round, and a piece of yellow fabric covers my hair. I can’t help but smile as I watch my chubby little fingers grab the dandelion. The delight on my face is hilarious.
The camera moves to capture Markie, but just outside of the frame, I hear Mom’s voice. It catches me off guard, and I gasp. Seeing pictures and movies of our family is one thing.
Hearing their voices is quite another.
Tears dot my eyes as a smile shapes my lips.
“No, Mira,” Mom says gently. “Don’t touch.”
The video shakes before I come into view again.
“Honey, that’ll sting you,” Dad says, moving closer to me.
But it’s too late. Before he can get to me, I’m jerking my hand back and wailing.
“Let me see,” Mom says, crouching down to my level. “Oh, that got you good.”
My bottom lip trembles with all the drama of a two-year-old. “Hurts.”
“You’re gonna be okay,” Mom promises. She scoops me up in her arms, pressing her cheek to mine despite my cries. “It’s okay, sweet girl. Just an ouchie.”
“We go home,” I say, as clear as a bell.
Dad chuckles behind the camera. “I think this is the only time that Mira’s ever asked to go home.”
Mom gazes up at my father and grins. “At least she knows where to go when she’s hurt.”
The video abruptly ends.
I stare at the dark screen, almost willing it to come back on. Sure, I could press another, but that would reinforce that they’re memories. I want to jump into the scene and hug my parents.
“This is why I don’t watch these,” I say, my eyes blurred by tears. “This is the most beautiful torture ever.”
My heart is tender as I rewind the video in my head and play it back. I press a hand against my sternum, feeling myheartbeat thump beneath my palm. When Mom gazed up at Dad and smiled,it was me. I could see my nose on her face, my eyes as she looked at the camera. The love shining in them is exactly how I feel when I look at Hartley.
No wonder Lolly had tears on my wedding day.How does she look at me and not feel pain?
And then there was Mom’s pretty smile that I see reflected on Markie’s beautiful face every time I look at her. Dad’s chuckle … I’ve heard that from Miles, too.
We’re their living memory.
I hold my phone to my chest as more memories spring through my mind.
Mom’s lipstick always looked slightly orange. Dad loved striped shirts. They took us to a little park with old equipment, and Markie would go down the slide headfirst. Dozens of happy times flood my mind—memories I’ve been too scared to remember.
We were happy. There was so much joy.
I wipe the tears from my cheeks. They’d want me to know that joy. And, by not letting myself be completely free of this hidden grief, I’m not honoring them well. I’m not being the person they raised. Two-year-old me was braver than I am now, it seems. I felt the sting in my finger and asked for help. I wasn’t afraid to cry.
