I remember perfectly polished brown shoes with three horizontal straps and silver buckles. I remember beautiful dresses with vivid pastel floral patterns. I remember having freshly squeezed glasses of very thick orange juice and warm silver dollar pancakes drenched in maple syrup. I remember a new white rug that I got chocolate ice cream all over and her saying, "Don't worry, it's only a rug.”—but I cannot remember the pitch or tone of her voice. I remember beautiful soft hands that ran up and down the piano fingerboard, but I cannot hear what was being played. I remember beautiful brown hair, pearl white teeth, and crystal blue eyes, strong shoulders, a slender waist, and strong calf muscles always adorned with nude stockings. I remember the aroma of her perfume; all the times she beat me at checkers, all the times she helped me win—but the two things I cannot remember are the sound of her voice and her entire face.

Pictures can rekindle some of my memories, but sometimes I just make myself believe that I remember the exact moment in the picture when I really do not. Why is it that I can only remember scattered bits and pieces of moments, fragments of her face, but never the whole moment, the entire face? Do I really remember these images, or were they told and shown to me so many times that I fool myself into believing that I remember them? I really don't know.
The one event that I remember though, I swear it feels as if it happened yesterday, is a rather sad moment. I can't quite see her face in my head, but I remember the conversation we had word for word, and I see a mouth moving with teeth that didn’t seem to fit, but no sound is coming out. When I relive the event in my head, I am the narrator for both characters—her and myself.

I see a sick woman who physically deteriorated faster than it takes chocolate ice cream to melt on the hottest of hot days. I still can't figure out why out of all the people in the world, she was struck with this horrible, fatal cancerous disease. She said to me, "Anthony--can you help me up? I am tired and I really want to take a nap." I said, "Yes, Nana, I can help you!" I was honored that she would even ask me; she usually asked my Aunt, or my Uncle, or my Mom, or my Dad. She then said to me, "Are you sure you are strong enough?"

I can still feel her hands on my shoulders pushing herself up. I was thinking, what happened to you, Nana? Why are you so thin and frail? You are supposed to be helping me. Why aren't you getting better? Why can’t you get better? Just at that instant, her hand slipped off my shoulder and I WAS NOT STRONG ENOUGH. I couldn’t catch her. The only image I'm sure wasn't fabricated in my mind is the image of my Nana, the love of my life, hitting the floor—and there was nothing I could do to help her. I just watch her fall like tree in a hurricane.

I ask you this one question—why is it the thing I remember about my Nana frame by frame, the one thing that I want to forget? Why can't I remember all the times we laughed and played outside? Why can’t I remember her singing to me? Why can’t I remember how her hands felt when she gave me a hug, or how her lips felt on my cheek when she gave me a kiss? The photographs I see of me with her make me cry still to this day, because I really don't remember; I only remember one thing completely, and I know it won’t dull or fade with time—I will never forget—my Nana.