I Remember You

Cinematic Orchestra, melodic, high voice falsetto, fragile delivery, intimate, falsetto edges

STUDIO

I remember I still do.
Yes, Mom, I remember you.

You left for work at five each day.
At seven, you came home.
Still cooking, cleaning, on your feet,
With no time of your own.
On Fridays, I could smell the food
Before I reached our door.
I'd burn my fingers on the pan
And still reach back for more.
You'd laugh and say, "I've saved you a plate.
Slow down. There's more for you."
You'd watch me with that quiet smile.
I'd barely stop to chew.
God, take me back
Just for one more taste.

I remember. I still do.
Your gentle voice, your laughter too.
I hear you in the things I say.
Yes, Mom, I remember ,I remember you.

You'd call me up, your voice kept low:
"Can you come and get me?"
You'd turn your back towards the street,
Afraid your boss might see.
You'd laugh like you were skipping school,
And joke the whole way home.
Now I still take those same old turns,
But drive back on my own.

I remember. I still do.
You whispered prayers to see us through.
I wish one could have kept you here.
Yes, Mom, I remember ,I remember you.

You'd call my name from the garden gate,
With bags of food and something sweet.
My son would ask for "Grandma's rice"
As we sat down to eat.
You'd tell us stories of your youth,
Then say you had to go.
I wish I'd asked you, "Stay a while.
There's more I want to know."

As you got older, you were scared
You'd end up like your mother,
Looking at us, not knowing who we were.
Scared a stroke would leave you trapped inside,
Still hearing us, but unable to reply.

That night, the family planned to meet.
You'd picked a dress to wear.
My uncle called from down below:
"She's not answering."
I thought you might be getting dressed,
Too busy, nothing more.
I heard your phone ring from inside.
The firemen forced the door.

I can't forget.
Water on the floor. Still rising.
My brother screaming.
A medic pushing past.
The table set.
Your dress laid out on a chair.
A gift envelope waiting.
An empty coffee cup.

For two weeks, I stayed by your bed.
"You've got this, Mom," I'd say.
I held the rail and told myself
You'd come back home one day.
I was that frightened boy again,
Still asking you to stay.
Then came the night we lost you.

I remember. I still do.
Your gentle voice, your laughter too.
I hear you when I call my son.
Yes, Mom, I remember you.

And me?
I still look at my garden gate.
For a second...
I expect to see you there.

2370/7500

I remember I still do. Yes, Mom, I remember you. You left for work at five each day. At seven, you came home. Still cooking, cleaning, on your feet, With no time of your own. On Fridays, I could smell the food Before I reached our door. I'd burn my fingers on the pan And still reach back for more. You'd laugh and say, "I've saved you a plate. Slow down. There's more for you." You'd watch me with that quiet smile. I'd barely stop to chew. God, take me back Just for one more taste. I remember. I still do. Your gentle voice, your laughter too. I hear you in the things I say. Yes, Mom, I remember ,I remember you. You'd call me up, your voice kept low: "Can you come and get me?" You'd turn your back towards the street, Afraid your boss might see. You'd laugh like you were skipping school, And joke the whole way home. Now I still take those same old turns, But drive back on my own. I remember. I still do. You whispered prayers to see us through. I wish one could have kept you here. Yes, Mom, I remember ,I remember you. You'd call my name from the garden gate, With bags of food and something sweet. My son would ask for "Grandma's rice" As we sat down to eat. You'd tell us stories of your youth, Then say you had to go. I wish I'd asked you, "Stay a while. There's more I want to know." As you got older, you were scared You'd end up like your mother, Looking at us, not knowing who we were. Scared a stroke would leave you trapped inside, Still hearing us, but unable to reply. That night, the family planned to meet. You'd picked a dress to wear. My uncle called from down below: "She's not answering." I thought you might be getting dressed, Too busy, nothing more. I heard your phone ring from inside. The firemen forced the door. I can't forget. Water on the floor. Still rising. My brother screaming. A medic pushing past. The table set. Your dress laid out on a chair. A gift envelope waiting. An empty coffee cup. For two weeks, I stayed by your bed. "You've got this, Mom," I'd say. I held the rail and told myself You'd come back home one day. I was that frightened boy again, Still asking you to stay. Then came the night we lost you. I remember. I still do. Your gentle voice, your laughter too. I hear you when I call my son. Yes, Mom, I remember you. And me? I still look at my garden gate. For a second... I expect to see you there.

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