02/12/2021
to and . Posa is short for “Mariposa” or butterfly in Spanish. It is named after my mom, who passed away in 2001 and for the puppy I named Posa, who brought me back to life in her absence. I wrote this for her on the 9th anniversary of her death. She is still a part of who we are at Posa Apparel. My son and I say goodnight to her every night. She’s in his eyes and laugh. She’s in the butterflies above his bed. She’s in all the light.
“I remember when you went back to work. I was in second grade. It was 1988, and bangs, particularly their height and shape, were very important. You left too early in the morning to do our hair, so dad had to get us ready for school. We celebrated minor victories each day that our foreheads were not burned, but he didn’t do it like you did. I went to school with lackluster bangs and a lunchbox full of all the signs that you still loved me.
We kept you up late at sleepovers. So in the morning you blasted the stereo into a living room strewn with lumpy sleeping bags as you made us breakfast. We ate eggs, pancakes, toast, and your sense of humor.
I am still a seven-year-old girl with a lunchbox who wants to see her mom at the end of the day.
I remember saying goodbye to you nine years ago. I held onto your hand, and didn’t want to let go because I had no idea what that meant. Maybe that’s how you felt the first day I went to school. I’ve been standing at the bus stop for nine years, missing you terribly, yet hopeful.
I hear your voice. We’re singing the Name Game Song, just finishing “banana fana fo famber, fee fi fo famber, Amber,” and then you always say, “Let’s do Chuck!”
I can taste each of the nineteen birthday cakes I shared with you. Feel the itch of each hand-made Halloween costume I reluctantly wore. I can hear your yell at my soccer games. I can still smell your perfume. I am comprised of memories of you, and am grateful that there are enough to give, and enough to keep me company in your absence. Thank you for all that you gave.”