A Strange Thing, Memory

It's the little things I remember.
The under-roos and the wrestling moves,
Saturday morning cartoons and spontaneous outbursts of song.
The Garbage Pail Kids stickers on everything
And the arguments over nothing.
It's a strange thing, memory.
How it dredges up the smallest, seemingly meaningless, events
And plays them over and over again.
Like my own personal drive in theater without the stale popcorn and heavy breathing.
You're gone, but my memory refuses to let you go.
Instead, insisting on reminding me of every peanut butter and jelly-stained sandwich we ever shared, every prank we ever pulled, every gray hair we ever caused our mother, and every second we ever wasted.
You're gone, and it's the little things I remember.
The nausea I felt when she told me you were dead.
The smell of sage and chemicals in the funeral home.
The way your hair fell softly away from your face as we said goodbye.
The kindness you inspired in strangers.
It's a strange thing, memory.
But it's all I have left of you.