Head

I remember the day you were born like it was yesterday. On the way to get your mother induced, I told her that there was no way I was going to look down there as you came out of the birth canal. She told me that I was being a wimp. I maintained my obstinance, however. I was afraid I would be mentally scarred afterward. We pulled into the hospital, and they got your mother into a room. Not too long after, she started the process of giving birth to you. There was a lot of pushing and grunting. Your mom was making faces that I have never seen before or since. I sat up there with her holding her hand as she crushed mine. We were like that for a long time, you just refused to come out. At one point the doctor said you somehow wormed yourself back up the birth canal. Eventually I started to get curious. Just what was going on down there. I shot a look at your mom, and she met my gaze. That woman can read me like a book, let me tell you. She knew what I was thinking. She gave me a slight nod prodding me forward. I gave in. You met me there. Your glistening head peeking out, straining to join our lives.  The sight was strange I’ll admit, but it wasn’t scary like I imagined it would be. It was beautiful. Your mother gave a mighty push, and I could see your crystal blue eyes. Mine and your mother’s are brown. Yours were the first sign that you were my strange, special girl.

Those blue eyes looked at me like they already knew me. And that’s when your shoulders came out.

‍

Shoulders

I always used to carry you on my shoulders when you were little. You’d come up to me and say, “Daddy let’s play giant!” So, I’d swoop you up off your feet and set you down on my shoulders and we’d stomp around the living room crushing villages and pillaging kingdoms for their gold with our awesome might. You would ask me, “Daddy, how did you get so big and strong to pick me up?” I’d tell you that your grandparents were actual giants and that I had just been born smaller than most. I still had the strength of a giant. You laughed and asked me if I’d always be this strong.

I didn’t lie to you. I told you that one day I’d get old, and my strength would leave me. Being the smart little girl you were, you said that meant you’d get old. “Old things die and giants never die.” I smiled down at you and said you’re right, how silly of me. We’d play giants a little while longer, but you’d get bored of this eventually and want to be let down. I never wanted to let you go. When we played giant, I wanted to play it forever.

‍

Knees

You started running track and I couldn’t be prouder. Your mother and I weren’t exactly athletes. I was a bookworm in school and your mother was in the band. But for some reason you excelled. I was excited to finally have a reason to go to one of these athletic  events and cheer you on. That day on your big race me and your mom sat at the very front row of the bleachers. We screamed your name. You ignored us trying not to be embarrassed. I remember you lining up with the other girls when the race began. Feet pounded on the dirt track, and hearts pounded both on the field and in the stands. You started falling behind and your mother gasped. I knew better. My little girl was a giant, remember? You hit your stride on the final lap and left those other kids in the dust. BANG! It was over. My smaller than average giant, Evelyn, was the winner!  After an afternoon of planning your eventual Olympic career following your middle school track win, you told me and your mom that you wanted to go out with your friends. You were wearing a green crop top with black jeans that had holes cut out where the knees were. “Don’t you think that’s a little too much skin?” I asked. “No,” You said, “I think it’s just the right amount.” We had raised a smart ass. We made you put on a jacket before you went out. You slipped on some flip flops against our wishes and ran, your purple painted toes flashing in the night. “10:00pm” We said. That was your curfew. At 10:30 your mother and I were fuming. How dare you be late after we let you out with your friends on a school night? At midnight we were just worried. That’s about the time the police called.

‍

Toes

The officer let me into the morgue. Your mother wouldn’t go in with me. She just sat on the bench outside shaking back and forth. It was cold when I went in. I got goosebumps on my arms. A white sheet covered everything except those purple toes. The officer explained that one of the friends had been drinking and they went straight into one of the concrete barriers. I didn’t really hear him at the time. I just kept staring at your purple painted toes. They wouldn’t twitch no matter how many times I willed them to. They just wouldn’t budge. They wouldn’t fucking budge.

They never told me when I was burying my giant that the casket would be so small. The casket was closed after what happened to you, but I wanted so badly to look at you one last time. I wanted to see all the little details that proved you were mine. That scrape on your shin where you fell off your bike with me trying to teach you. That indent on your nose from your purple wide rimmed glasses. You inherited my bad eyesight. That birthmark on your left shoulder that looked sort of like the state of Florida. It’s been ten years since the funeral. I’ve tried to forget these little details because the memory of them just hurt me too much. But that’s the thing about giants. Even if it’s just your memories, Giants never die.

‍