I remember when you counted my smiles
like wishes or stars or candles on a birthday cake.
Each time, I’d make a sarcastic remark,
bring up some kind of melodramatic irony.
Each time, you merely smiled.
You taught me that smiles aren’t just the disease;
they’re also the cure.
I could never help but offer a grin in return
and worry about scaring you away.

I remember a flood of questions:
Are you okay?
How was school?
Do you need any help?
Oh, okay, I’ll be quiet,
would you like anything to drink?
Lemonade it is,
now don’t worry about me,
anything else?
One moment then,
and don’t bother with the tip.

I remember entire conversations in my head,
stemming from the most foolish of inquiries.
My memory in this manner surprises me.
What of you?
Do you remember?
Am I a memory, too?
Is it vanity that I wish to be remembered,
at least and if only by you?