I miss the way your hair smells when I stand behind you waiting for the coffee machine. I can’t explain the smell, but no Jeanne it’s not a greasy smell, it’s the same smell your hair has had since you were little.
I miss your morning face and how long it used to take me to wake you up in the morning for class. You never fail to have some sort of pillow crease right down your cheek.
I miss the sound of you waking up and not trying at all to be quiet as you bang pots and pans around in the kitchen. I used to lie in bed as you woke me up half pissed and half secretly wishing you were making something yummy for me.
I miss the trends you go through with clothes, and how you wear the same sweater and sweat pants for months at a time. You wash them or buy new ones, but you will always wear the same t-shirt or shorts for at least a month before moving on to a new set to over love.
I miss the way you break down so easily when you try to hold the weight of your college world on your shoulders. Your crying face is something that I could paint as easily as my own.
I miss your concentration face. I almost forgot about it until the other day I caught myself making something of the sort while I was typing out an email.
I miss your stupid sense of humor, and the way that you would laugh when I got you goin with your shoulders rounded over and your mouth open, eyes closed and squinting, with a few whole body shakes like you were having a seizure, and maybe a knee slap somewhere in the middle of that. Performed best in the spaghetti aisle of the supermarket.
I miss talking about life and love with you. Sometimes so real, and other times so intensely dramatic that we could write a screenplay that even soap operas would refuse.
I miss the shower alarm.
I miss sitting on the roof with you, and having picnics.
I miss driving with you.
I miss overplaying bad rap or terrible pop songs with you.
I miss the way you sit on the couch with a pillow in your lap.
I miss your face, and the holes you keep punching into it.
I miss your ideas, and hate that I wasn’t there when you got your first tattoo.
I miss telling people that ‘my sister is making me dinner, so maybe we can hang out another night’.
I miss your drama.
I miss your September Sanctions.
I miss your dirty shoes.
I miss you.
Hope this is good enough for you, ya little brat.
Flabula
