I go down to switch loads and I remember doing laundry with her. Playing around with her by doing goofy things with her clothing. Wearing her 38 DD bras... walking around her 'fixing' the bra... the things we'd do down there when we were supposed to be doing laundry... I remember her house and the way things looked... I remember doing her laundry occasionally when she was lazy or tired or especially when she was sick. I remember her teaching me to cook... especially eggy in a basket...
To Emily Kohler, if she ever reads this: I say I don't know how to cook... because cooking reminds me of her... How she would cook for me and teach me how to cook... How she would tell me to stop bugging her and get out of the kitchen because I was screwing her up... then she'd bring me a plate of food as I laid sadly on the couch, wishing I was next to her... and I'd smile and eat the food she made me.. it was always good... That's why I don't cook... That's why I can't cook. I can't handle the memories.
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Finally!
ummm, read it.
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