I've been told that when you dig up the past, all you get is dirty. But I needed to remember these people. Who they were, what they did, I needed to remember what they meant to me, what they still mean to me. And I could recall most of it. Life before the accident. My father reading his textbooks on political science or American history to me. How he'd come home from work in his neatly pressed slacks and button down shirt, playing piano, barefoot. How I'd wrap my arms around his leg and sit on his foot, to keep him right where he was. One foot pinned to our living room carpet. On the weekends we'd walk to the diner where my mother worked. How I would sit alone behind the counter with my crayons, coloring on the back of the kids menus, while my mother rushed along taking orders and smiling. These little scenes, not hazy at all, were more like small glimpses or fragments of a much bigger picture that I couldn't piece together, at least not then.
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