I Remember

I remember summer showers in muggy St Louis.

I remember balmy summer nights as a teenager, spent at the Renard’s big house.

I remember Diana Renard’s’s mom’s famous lasagna. We all called her mom “Mother Mary.”

I remember sleeping on the Renard’s sleeping porch on summer nights The Renards were parents who let us get drunk but did not want us driving.

I remember hearing of Mr. Renard’s premature death from liver failure, otherwise known as alcoholism.

I remember taking a bottle of Dad’s vodka from his rather substantial stash in the basement pantry to make screw drivers for our group of friends.

I remember after graduating, Megan came over to return her door key and say goodbye to my parents before leaving for college,

I remember Dad saying “Oh, just keep the key Megan, you never know when you will need some vodka.

I remember our eyes growing large and our mouths dropping open.

I remember the night sounds, loud yet soothing, of crickets and cicadas on hot summer nights.

I remember staying up all night.  Talking and laughing,  until we heard the birds sing at dawn.

I remember titling those long nights, “Bird Singers.”

I remember Cardinals in the snow during St. Louis winters.

I remember telling mom that I thought the cardinals stayed all winter in St Louis, rather than migrating south because they knew how stunning their deep red feathered bodies looked in the white snow.

I remember snow angels and snow men and sledding.

I remember not liking snowball fights.  I do not remember ever throwing a snowball at anyone.

I remember skating at Shaw Park ice rink.

I remember the bench around the bon fire beside the rink.

I remember sipping hot cocoa beside the bonfire. It tasted delicious after spending an hour skating in circles under the lights above the rink on winter evenings,

I remember Dad building a log fire in our living room fireplace and sitting happily in his comfy chair beside the crackling blaze, reading.

I remember sitting in the chair across from dad and reading too, happy to be there with him.

I remember Dad’s slow bout with lung cancer.

I remember Dad while he could still speak, imploring the doctors to give him something to let him go, to let him escape from his painful terminal illness.

I remember the nurses explaining to me that they could not legally increase the morphine drip past a certain number.

I remember that they did not say a word about my possibly increasing the dose level a bit.

I remember discussing the idea with my sister, herself a doctor.

I remember turning the drip up

I remember Dad’s skinny boney body and face, as he lay there in the hospital bed in our dining room, at last relaxing. 

I remember the relieved sorrow when he took his last breath and let life go, as though relief of constant pain allowed him to welcome passing over.