Memories

Tonight my sister, brother-in-law and grandmother are over for my father's birthday. We had dinner, dessert and opened presents. The usual mundane family birthday activities. I retreated to my room afterwards to work on some papers I have due later this week, along with other homework.
Sooner or later someone suggests the whole "lets watch old home videos" game plan. I say "no, thanks" and continue work on my marvelous laptop. After a while I hear the echoes of the television seep through the walls as they often do. I hear my squeaky four year old voice, excitedly muttering something about Santa and my sister. I immediately know which home video this is. Christmas 1995. My eyes bulge out of my head as I open a gift that has a dalmation on it or something, a dinner plate or like objects. Everything I open I want to share with someone.
I hear the bells of "Santa" a.k.a. my Uncle, and the family makes a huge fuss over him as he walks through the front door carrying presents in arm. I talk so fast no one can understand me. I hear my late grandfather's voice directing me where to go, who to hug, and when to smile for a picture. This is the reason why I can't take a break and go watch our ridiculous antics with everyone else. If only he was here today to tell me where to turn, who to trust, and what I should do. I hear his voice travel through the walls and into my ears, soothing like an old melody you used to know. I had forgotten what it sounded like. God how I loved his voice.
For fear that tears will begin to flood my eyes, I'll stay in my safe room in the comfort of solitude. I know I'll never have a Christmas like that again. I'll never be so excited over a pillow, plate, or stuffed puppy. He'll never be there again to help me rip off bows, save me from his rabid cat, or listen to me follow along as we sing Rudolph the Rednose Reigndeer.
Seeing him along with hearing him would only push me over the edge. Maybe I need that, I don't know. It's too hard, so I run. I can't face him on a video, but I know he's right here with me, tattoed on my shoulder. Sometimes I forget he's there because I can't see him very well. That's sort of how it was when he was alive. He was always there even when I was too oblivious to know he was. When people we love die it leaves an open wound on our hearts. Although wounds heal and our platelets make our blood clot, the wound still leaves a scar and scabs over. Years can go by. But if something hits you just right, slices you deep enough, it can rip right open again. Maybe we need that. Maybe pain is a way to know that you're alive, and scars are a way to know that you have lived.