I REMEMBER

Writer: Kelly Munala Brookes

I remember the bright lights and the cold rush of air against my skin and the trembling hands of Nurse Clare lifting me into the world.

I remember my mother, Grace, her voice soft and tired, whispering my name, Martha, as if she had always known me. I just couldn't reply.

I remember my father, Thomas, standing awkwardly in the corner. He smiled with eyes that didn’t yet understand love but were learning quickly.

I remember the yellow curtains in our small home and the way sunlight cut through them every morning. Those mornings when mom would make pancakes from a recipe she took from her mom. The mornings when the cat, Tommy, came up to me and I'd sneezed.

I remember Mrs. Callahan next door, always humming as she watered her roses, lillies and cherry blossoms. 🌸🌹🌺 I wonder what became of her.

I remember my brother Daniel chasing me through the yard, laughing louder than the wind while my sister Lillian braided my hair too tightly and apologized with a kiss on my forehead. It never used to work though. 😁

I remember the day I saw a woman on the street. Forgot her name, but I remember her brown coat and the small white dog she walked. Sadly, she didn't make it back. She and her dog got shot dead outside her apartment. Oh yes, I remember her name, it was Mrs Jenkins. That left a mark in me.

I remember my teacher, Mr. Harris, chalk dust on his sleeves, telling me I was “a thinker”and i should think bigger. Looking back, I see I made the right calls.

I remember sixth grade, Julie with her constant sneezing, Michael with his awkward stare, Rebecca who always borrowed pencils and never returned them. I remember them all. And I miss the way they made me feel. But now, they're all gone.

I remember the first time I felt embarrassed, when I tripped in front of everyone and heard laughter echo longer than it should have. Luckilly, I had Isaac, my best friend, who made me feel not alone.

I remember the first time I felt proud, when I stood on a stage in front of everyone in class and read aloud, my voice shaking but unbroken.

I remember my mother growing quieter as the years passed. Her laughter becoming something rare and precious. Finding her cry in the kitchen, but she said she was alright. It came a time, friends started coming to check on her frequently after she stopped going to work. Then daddy also stopped going to work. I used to go to school and leave them at home. I remember the night she coughed too long, too hard, and the room fell into a silence that never truly left, I still feel it. My sweet sweet mama. 😭😭😭 I remember standing beside her bed, holding her hand as it grew colder, whispering things I should have said sooner. Lilian was shaking her as she cried loudly. Daniel just couldn't handle it, so he ran away.

I remember my poor daddy after that, how he sat in the same chair every evening, staring at nothing, as if waiting for her to return. The house felt like someone else's. It felt chilly and dark. But that wasn't the full darkness.

I remember the day he didn’t wake up, his face finally at peace, as if he had found her again. I was old enough to understand loss, but i just couldn't digress what was happening well enough. Now it was just us three. The twins and me.

I remember Daniel leaving home, saying he needed to see the world, and I remember the letter that came years later, saying he had fallen ill somewhere far away. Hearing this just reminded me of the things that had befallen us years before. I remember crying over words written by someone else’s hand. He was no longer with us.

I remember my best friend Clara, the camping trips, the nights by the fire, the stories we told and the secrets we kept. I remember the night we kissed. It was all unexpected but soft. A moment that lived quietly between us forever. I remember the way we never spoke of it again, but never forgot. I remember children’s laughter that wasn’t mine but felt like it could have been.

I remember college, the library, the smell of old books, and a boy named Henry who always sat across from me pretending not to look. I remember the first time he spoke, asking about a book he hadn’t read. I remember our first walk, our first argument, our first understanding. I remember the night under the stars when he told me he loved me, and I believed him without question. I remember marrying him, the world feeling both enormous and small at the same time. But was I ready?

I remember neighbors, strangers, passing faces. Mr. Jenkins at the corner store, years after losing his wife to the shooting. I remember Anna with the red scarf, a man on a bus who cried silently into his sleeve. I remember wars spoken of on the radio, celebrations in the streets, the world changing while I tried to keep up. I remember growing older without noticing, until mirrors began telling me stories I hadn’t asked to hear.

I remember Lillian’s wedding, her dress bright as morning, and the way she squeezed my hand before walking down the aisle. She was stunning, but the most beloved attribute of her was how sweet she was to everybody she knew. I remember visiting her years later, her laughter still warm. But she didn't look that much excited. That was when she explained to me her condition. She was also dying. And she made me promise to walk her daughters through school, graduation and marriage. I just couldn't say no. I remember loss arriving quietly, but she was always ready. The once sunshine of our hearts just wasn't there no more.

I remember Lillian’s daughters; Amelia, Rose, and Judith. And I remember how the promise I made beside a fading heartbeat would see them through the life Lilian never finished watching. I remember Amelia, the quiet one, who feared the world but became a lawyer, speaking boldly in rooms that once would have silenced her. I remember Rose, named for something delicate, who grew restless and stubborn and chose the rough path, traveling far, chasing storms, never staying long enough to be known. I remember Judith, who laughed the loudest, who seemed the strongest, yet stayed closest to home, carrying the weight of memory like it was her duty alone. I remember attending their graduations, their small victories, their broken moments, standing where their mother should have stood, clapping louder than anyone else to hide the absence beside me. I remember thinking how strange it was that the one who feared life ran toward it, the one named for beauty chased chaos, and the strongest learned to stay, and how none of them became what we once imagined, yet somehow became exactly who they were meant to be.

I remember Henry’s hair turning grey, his hands growing slower, his voice softer. I remember the day he held my hand in a hospital room and told me he was tired. I remember telling him it was okay to rest, even though it broke me. I remember watching him close his eyes for the last time. I remember the silence that followed, heavier than any sound. It now felt like I was in a foreign place. Everyone I knew was going away.

I remember years passing like pages turning too quickly. Writing my books and publishing them. Getting huge sales and being named as one of the greatest writers in the country. A country that lacked the proper healthcare, causing people to die. I was sick of this. So I moved down to New Mexico for some time, but within a short time, I was back. I just couldn't shake the feeling that this was where I was always supposed to make a difference. And so I did by fighting for better healthcare systems for people in my town and all around the world. I evolved.

Over time, I remember names started to slip, faces started to fade and moments started to get blurred at the edges. I remember trying to hold onto everything, as if memory itself could keep them alive. I would write about them, everything they did and what they represented. I remember sitting alone sometimes, speaking their names aloud so the world wouldn’t forget them. But it was never enough, because the world had already started forgetting me too.

I remember now, this room, these machines, the steady rhythm that tells me I am still here. I remember the nurse, Daniel, not my brother, but kind in the same way, adjusting my blanket. I remember the doctor, Patel, speaking gently, as if I were made of glass. But if I was, I probably would have broken myself a long time ago.

I remember the weight of years, the fullness of a life lived in fragments and moments. I remember love in all its forms. Soft, loud, fleeting, and everlasting. I remember loss, always loss, but never without the memory of what came before. I remember everything I can, holding it close as it begins to slip away. I remember my name is Martha. I remember that I was here.

I remember…