Waking up, I remember who isn’t there.
The sun starts shining on my hair.
The light fills out my room.
Flowers on my desk begin to bloom.
Their growing shadow falls over my journal
A picture next the flowers of my Ganny Peggy Sue and my papa Dickey the Colonel.
I want to write about them
Even though my knowledge of them is dim.
I put my pen to paper and my wrist directs:

I feel the souls of all of them now surrounding the table speaking to me and to each other. Sticking out their tongues at me, just like in the pictures. My Ganny Peggy Sue, Uncle Arnold, Great grandma Eunice, and my Papa Dickey, they are my connection to the past. My silent teachers I met through stories. But ironicly I miss them more than anything. My living aunts sit in the bright light above the table. Looking at there hands speaking about everyone to me. My brain feels complete, nothings else I want to learn. My hands are dusty and scratched from my endless scrimmaging through the house, learning and smelling everything. I have a pile of treasures I found. A box full of pictures of my family members, My great-grandmother’s jewelry box, A laundry bag my papa used in the Navy; I thought it would help me do my laundry. When I was looking through the kitchen for a fork I found these mini forks that I would use and my ganny would make fun of me for it. She would then look at me and say “A bushel and a peek and a hug around the neck” and she would do just that. That is exactly what I said to her when she died, when I said goodbye.

My arms; the dancers,
My soul; the music.