Where did all the time go?

I remember getting ready for our Sunday brunches, where we’d look at ourselves in the mirror and you’d compliment my hat. 

I remember walking to the frozen yogurt shop, your long legs striding further away from me with every step. 

I remember your tiny hyperactive dog, Tanner, that for some reason I was terrified of. 

I remember you always asking for a bite of everyone’s french toast, and I especially remember giggling when my dad would give me a glance that said, I told you so. 

But what I regret most of all are the things I no longer remember. Maybe if I did, if I could have talked to you about these memories, things would be okay now. Maybe if I did, I would’ve been able to say goodbye. 

But instead, I live on knowing that the last thing you saw before you passed away was my face,

the face of someone you used to know, 

now the face of a stranger.