Lotus

by Jennifer Hartmann

“I know you probably don’t remember me,” she says, folding her hands together in her lap, fingers intertwining. Her eyes are a captivating shade of blue as they implore me. They are twinkling, even. “But I remember you.” I’m inclined to look away, inhaling an uneven breath as I try so hard not to withdraw altogether. “You would pull on my pigtails, telling me that I looked like Angelica from Rugrats. We would make mudpies in my driveway after a rainstorm. Our families would sit out back around the firepit roasting marshmallows, while you, me, Gabe, and Clem tried to outdo each other with the scariest ghost story. We would play ‘telephone’ from window to window, we’d set up lemonade stands at the edge of the road and use the money for the ice cream man, and we’d catch fireflies in glass jars.” Sydney stops to collect herself, her eyes reflecting wet tears. “I remember everything about you, Oliver. You were real. Your life before what happened to you was real.”