You won’t remember, but I can’t forget.
You’ll hear our song on the radio,
then lose the lyrics you once sang in your sleep.
You’ll feel the rhythm of rain against the windshield,
then miss the tear tracks spilling sideways,
leaking from the corners, hovering at the rim.
You’ll see the faces of our children, close up and careful,
their names like dandelion seeds blown away by the breeze.
You’ll blink once, then turn the other way.
You won’t remember, and I won’t remind you.
I won’t allow my disappointment to poison your excitement while
eating oatmeal with raisins for the third day in a row.
I won’t ask you to share a piece of apple pie,
the sweet slices oozing between flakes of crust,
because apples are round and you don’t like round things anymore.
I won’t suggest we visit the market to buy basil and mint from that young farmer, his
dark eyes flashing as I drop leftover coins in a glass jar on the counter.
He still asks after you when I go alone.
You won’t remember, yet I cannot recall the exact moment myself.
On occasion, I catch a glimmer of recognition flickering across your face,
quickly fading as your smile slips.
My time with you is split between before and after that one, terrible moment,
and the gap widens each time you hesitate before letting me touch you.
If I could take that moment back,
if I could clutch it to my chest and suspend it from the rafters of my heart,
if I could promise to never let go,
then perhaps you might remember who we were before you went away.
Erika MacNeil is a dancer by training, teacher by trade, writer on a whim. Community leader, ally of the marginalized, advocate for the underdog. Look for her work with Rice Paper, Neon and Smoke, and Archived Press. Her writing strives to make something out of nothing, stemming from the person she used to be, then curated by the person she wants to become. Find her on IG @hintsofgrey
Featured image by Natalie Grainger on Unsplash.
