Alison's Birthday RAM

I remember the deep sea of clothing that covered your bedroom floor. I remember pastel leg warmers, spandex drill team outfits, shiny silver parachute pants, and closets full of aerosol cans. I remember the Best of Bread, Air Supply, and Thriller. I remember the dexterity in your fingers and the weight in the busts of Bach and Mozart. I remember the heavy spirit in those silent moments sitting next to you in front of a newly decorated Christmas tree, and feeling total comfort in the wind outside. I remember green canyon hotdogs, and wondering if I could ever swing like you. I remember you giving the coils of the phone cord a workout while slowly licking a spoonful of peanut butter dry. I remember your mud-caked spud harvest jacket, liver dinners after a lamb butchering, and wide eyed nights in front of the slide projector.

I remember Primary Children’s. I remember concerned grandparents, Mom’s tears, and the salty smell of the lake. I remember you sitting in the hospital bed and dipping your head, cascading your brown hair forward and revealing the balding spots where the hairline should be. I remember taking turns, light-mindedly playing with the medical gadgets that you eventually brought home.

I remember watching the videotaped seminary graduation you had missed. I remember Pine View apartments, and learning the term “RAM” while visiting your computer class. I remember your bouquet, and the whiteness in your dress and in the snow. I remember the crème puffs and the big empty jars. I remember Greg, a soul full of unquenchable playfulness, and a brother in the most real sense of the word. I remember Roxanne, her affinity for peas and crickets, and her warm heating rock.

I remember the spirit of adoption, heaven sent and filling our world like God’s own breath. I remember your little girl with the widest eyes in the entire world. I remember your face—the very countenance of motherhood.

I remember letter after letter after precious letter. I remember photos, packages, and testimonies. I remember your love of the temple, the smile to end all smiles, and plenty of warm hugs. I remember saying to myself, “this is a sister” and knowing that no one else knew just what I meant.

Alison, this is my random access memory.

Lets not move our arms
Lets not move our legs
Lets not move our ears
Lets not move our noses
Lets not move our bones