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Show Inside Out, 5 At home, I had another pop tart and then got out my bike to ride to the library. "Where are you off to?" Leslie asked brightly. (Everything about Leslie was bright.) "To the library." And then, before she could offer to drive me, I said, "I'll take my bike." "Dinner is at 6:00," Leslie called out as I took off. I was still thinking about Mom. It felt good to bring up memory after memory for a while, rolling around in them the way I used to roll around in the fall leaves. At the library, I spread out my stuff and turned on my laptop, which had been a present from Dad and Leslie for my sixteenth birthday. And then, just because of the kind of day it had been and I was feeling weird, I wrote an e-mail to Mom. Just to sort of be with her for a minute. I didn't bother to put an address on it or anything. I just typed. From: Andli <Charcoalchic@vahoo.com> To: Dear Mom, If you were here, you'd drive me to the mall. I'd make you sit in one of those pink puffy chairs outside the dressing room and I'd come out to show you what I wanted to buy and you would say that the skirt was too short but that color looked good on me. Then I'd make you try on a slinky dress to surprise Dad with. I wish I could remember better how you look. It seems like I remember parts of you better than the whole you. You used to play with my hair when I sat near you, and I remember the feel of your fingers. Your hands always smelted like Jergens lotion. Some of your clothes I remember. I kept one of your dresses because at first it smelted like you, but it doesn't anymore. But it still looks like you. |