text: There are many things I remember. That's the curse of being human. I remember the way light streaks across the ground like it's reaching for you, to wrap you in warmth. I remember the way it feels when a warm breeze ruffles your hair and brushes across your cheek. The feeling of hundreds of warm blades of grass under your legs, and the smell of the dirt that gets stuck to them. I remember it all, but those memories don't feel like they're mine. A faint memory of running my fingers across damp flower petals fills my head for just a moment, like a spray of perfume that quickly settles to the floor. They were pink on the outside and red on the inside, and as I ran my finger across them, little raindrops fell off the curved tips of the petals. As the memory settles like dust, I feel that feeling of my fingers on the cold flower petals spreading and twirling lightly in the air around me as if it is dancing, just for me. As quick as it came, though, it faded. Lost to the ground. Cold emptiness, like my body is falling through the floor, is all that is left. It seems to echo now, louder than before. Crashing against my heart like big waves trying to rip me apart. I tighten my grip on the arm of my chair and drop my head into my curled-up knees. Around me, there are a couple books scattered on my desk. A glass of water, a pack of gum. The hum of my computer charger and the wall in front of my face. This is what is real. It's been so long since it's been anything else, so long that my own memories no longer belong to me. They are instead the ghost of a child. A child who played in the sun, and collected bright flowers, and sat in the grass. A child who haunts me and won't let me forget all the things that used to be. No matter what, I just won't forget. I accidentally bite my lip too hard and the skin breaks. Reaching my hand up to my lip, I swipe my finger across the surface. I'm bleeding. I push away from my desk and make my way to the kitchen to get a paper towel, holding my finger up against my lip. Late afternoon light coming in from the big kitchen windows cast an unnatural shape on the whole room. I walk straight to the paper towels and press one section against my cut. I make my way back, my eyes following the light all the way up to the window as I walk. I suddenly stop, frozen in place. I know I couldn't have seen it, but I have to check. I rush to the sliding door and push it open, stepping outside. It is still barely spring. A cold breeze hits me in the face. Around me, trees stand without their leaves, and the grass lays dead. As I get closer, I stop breathing. Another frigid gust of wind blows against me, but I don't move. In front of me is a single flower in full bloom. Its pink surface gives way to the deep red inside. I reach out to touch it. Its thin, flimsy surface is cold and wet and it feels waxy between my fingers. Looking at it in my hand, I suddenly start to cry. I feel the tears running down my face, making a path down my cheeks. I collapse under my legs and sit there for a second, looking at the flower and feeling the tears run down my face. "Are you okay?" A voice calls to me from the distance. I turn to see my younger brother walking my way. I let go of the flower and quickly wipe my face with my free hand, still holding the paper towel to my lip. My brother reaches me and sits down on the grass. He looks at me with his thick eyebrows in a furrow. "Did you cut your lip?" He finally says, reaching towards me. I clear my throat a little and nod. "Yeah, I just bit it. It's not a big deal." I respond, gently pushing away his hand. His face changes, his shoulders relax, and his eyes suddenly dart around a little. Then he stops. "It's okay. Cuts are bad while you have them, but they always go away. That's why it's okay." He says, his voice picking up pace as he talks, becoming excited that he found the answer to my problem. "You're right. Thank you." I respond, feeling a smile tugging at the corners of my lips. His eyes dart to the flower. "Whoa! is there a flower already?!" He yells, his little voice full of joy. He reaches over my lap and touches the flower petals. I watch his little hands running over the pink surface of the flower, holding the stem. His hands are still little, his fingers a little chubby. They stand out against the thin petal of the flower. For some reason, I reach out to flower, wrap my hand around the stem, and pluck it. For a second I look at the flower in my hand, a little shocked at what I had done, and why. I feel my brother's eyes staring at me in confusion. I sit there for a second, feeling the silence all around me. Then I start to smile. I roll the stem back and forth between my fingers and make the flower twirl a few times, then I take it and tuck it right between his ear and his fluffy hair. It sits perfectly next to his bright eyes. He looks at me, still a little confused. My smile grows. "It's alright, buddy. Because flowers grow back." I then watch his smile grow in return. He reaches up and fixes the flower behind his ear before looking to me for approval. I smile at him. "It looks great. Do you want to go inside to look at it?" I ask. He nods and jumps up off the ground, running towards the house. I lift myself up as well and brush off my lap. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch a glimpse of him running through the yard. I look up. He zig-zags back and forth through the dead grass, the sun reaching towards him through the branches of the dead trees. I almost feel taken aback, watching him run and laugh through a yard of dead grass and dead trees while he wears a bright flower in his hair. Something swells up in my chest and another tear falls down onto my cheek. I imagine a million flowers blooming year after year so that children can come run their hands over them. I remember once again how I felt when I was running and playing with flowers as a kid. The memories still don't feel like they're mine. Rather they belong to my little brother. To all the little kids. But not to me. Not anymore. I start after him towards the house, watching him jump up the steps two at a time while holding the flower in his hair. He turns to me and smiles, his bright face lighting up. This memory is mine.