I held her eyelash on the tip of my finger waiting for her to make a wish. Instead, Mia took the eyelash with two finger tips like tweezers and said, “I want to keep it.”
I asked her why. And she said, “It’s a memory.”
I chuckled with pleasure that only a surprising response could conjure. “A memory of what?” I asked.
“Of being with you.” She said sweetly.
Mia’s long eyelashes close like the cilia of a Venus fly trap capturing lives. The memories she collects filter through and nourish her insides.
My eyes are thirsty, sore, and dry from being open at times they’re not used to. Baby Abe and I awake through dark hours from his ferocious hunger and desire for comfort.
In my tired daze, I fear the memories aren’t seeping through.
Will I remember this time when Abe is only happy my arms? And the moment he first smiled, with open eyes, staring at the feathers on the wall? Or when his poop shot into my hand as I held his naked bum in a thin white towel?
Will I remember that Mia collected rocks, shopkins and memories? When she gently took my eyelash and put it on her finger? And she whispered in my ear, “Wish he will go to sleep so you can play with me.”
Will I remember how Alana told me everything, every little detail, about her life and worries? How she worried about cavities and asked if the dentist will take her teeth out? Or how she constantly kissed Abe and always sealed the ritual with a gentle touch of her forehead against his?
Will I remember their youth?
My tired eyes thirst for it all.