You are in so many things. You were before too, but not like this. Now everything is more vivid.
You are in the Sunsweet prunes you used to have in your cupboard. You are in the small cartons of raisins that you used to give us as snacks when we visited. You're in cut apples and oranges, in half bananas cut with a knife with the peel on. In Charades and air hostesses, in those mini suitcase boxes of sweets you used to buy on the airplane when you came home from holiday. You're Turkey and Bulgaria, in beaches and resorts. You're in every winter holiday. You're in (oat) porridge made in the microwave, in orange pepperoni on melted cheese, in sponge cake with cream and fruit, in rice puffs covered in chocolate. You're in pancakes and waffles and sandwiches, in long pretzels and the little birds you used to feed breadcrumbs outside your kitchen window. You're in the magpie that took off with the crust. You're in every Border Collies's brown eyes. In light blue eyes and wavy hair. You're in fishballs and white sauce as well as dinner's skipped. In Toyotas, children, flowers and cemeteries. You're in the flowers we plant on graves and the candles we light in winter. You're in crosswords and gossip magazines. You're there every time the TV is off.
(Did you know I was the same as you? I prefer the TV off.)
You're in card games, especially Solitaire. You're at the kitchen table talking with my mother and I when everyone else are watching TV. You're the knock on the door and the car that gets overtaken. You're the funny voice that asks them why they didn't drive yesterday if they were in such a rush. You're in laughter and tears, often combined. You're songs and folk music, Elvis, Beatles and dance. You're singing about Edvart and his hammer. You're with me during Christmas, singing about baby Jesus and how we have mopped the floor. You're Christmas workshops, visits to the barn, walks up the hill to see Santa Clause's light in the window. Even in Santa Clause's face, hat and coat - you're there. You're in the small flash-lights that look like pens. In presents and gifts.
You're the hands that pinch my shoulders and make me laugh.
You're every leather jacket I have and will ever see. In running shoes and leather boots. You're sailor boots on basement stairs. You're in water beds and pink sheets, baby pink tops, in heated floor in the bathroom, in conditioners and lotions. You're in Vaseline and lip balm. You're in flea markets and funny hoovers I've never seen before. In crafts and decorations made by hand. You're the glasses that rests on the nose when reading, the radio that is playing music in the background. You're the afternoon nap and snores.
How I miss your snores.
You're the ticking of the clock, and the goodnight at the end of the day. You're the noises from the kitchen in the morning. You're the one telling me to stop sleeping in so much. You're the one who wants to go to bed early and the one who wakes up by the smallest noise. You're in the smell of summer and the green field outside your house. In your strawberry field and plants. You're at the seaside and in shells and stones. You're in round gear sticks and heavy wheels. You're sitting behind the wheel of the car that got scraped up. You're the one dragging me off the sofa, always running around. You're shopping trips on Saturdays and coffee and milk in the evening. You're in caramel, chocolate and strawberry sauce.
You're in the plastic bag with hair dye, a comb, an old tee shirt and a pink towel. You're in towels wrapped around shoulders and the dye rinsed out in water. In eyelashes with mascara and make-up borrowed as a child. You're in sticky lipstick, candles lit at night, nuts and nut crackers in a bowl, in red leather sofas and recliner chairs, big windows and seaside views. You're in cameras and framed photographs, memories placed proudly on the wall for everyone to see. You're in the chair at my violin recital, in the cake someone bakes me for my birthday. You're in every birthday party, in every July and in the dry clothes I put on after swimming in the sea.
You're in dreams and lazy mornings in a quiet house. You're naps on the sofa while I move around as quietly as I can. You're in children and sour cream sprinkled with sugar. You're a mother's yearning, and a house full of people. You're in rings and necklaces; even in rashes from earrings. You're in pens that twist and red plums. In tears in the shower and in so many songs. You're in Ed Sheeran's "Afire Love".
You're in the chickens we used to visit every summer and in the Shetland ponies that we rode. You're in leather gloves and thin fingers, bakery bought in town and put on a palate in our kitchen. You're in dinners and desserts, and different coloured towels. You're in attics stacked with cardboard boxes and in every costume that I try. You are the bonfire in the woods on St. John's Eve - and the food and drinks that we brought. You're the trips to the beach, the folding tables and chairs, and even the matching tracksuit bottoms and jackets. You're in blond and brown hair; short and long and even in perm. You're in scissors as you ask me to cut your hair and in laughter when I do a bad job.
You are in clothes passed down and second hand toys. You're in small prizes won at raffles, in bottles of freezing cold coke, in bicycles and walks. You're in baby pink nail-polish, hitch-hiking, new people, new places. You're in the warm summer's breeze and in the smell of buttercup flowers. You are the hand that holds mine and drags me along on adventures.
Whatever people tell me, you are still alive. I carry you with me everywhere.