Forget It

by Anja Leigh

 

I forget why I walked into this room

where I put my glasses, or

when my passport expires;

but I remember my childhood phone number,

the poem my fifth-grade boyfriend wrote me,

my son’s first birthing cry.

 

I don’t remember why we went to war,

where I put the scissors,

or where I parked the car,

but remember my first kiss.

 

I forget what it feels like to feel my feet,

the words to Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star,

or what day to take out the garbage;

but I remember emerging lilies-of-the-valley, and

my mother’s heartbeat as I lay against her breast.

 

I remember getting my first period,

my first bike, my baby sister’s hiccups.

I remember the first time my boy pals rejected me because I was a girl,

smoking my first cigarette, my first job, getting my driver’s license, and

the days JFK, MLK and RFK were assassinated.

 

I forget the names of movies,

what all these remotes control,

or where I saved that file.

 

I remember thinking I wouldn’t find love;

I forget how long ago that was.

I forget to brush my teeth or add vodka to the Moscow Mule,

but remember how to find all the houses I’ve lived in.

I forget where my grandparents are buried.

 

I remember my sixth-grade graduation dress, but

forget the sequence of presidents, and certainly vice-presidents.

I remember the grocery money, but

forget the shopping list.

 

I remember when phones had to be dialed

and watches worn on wrists.

I forget the names of all my cousins, and

the date my best friend died.

 

I forget names, but remember faces;

forget lyrics, but remember melodies;

I forget the time, but remember Paris,

and every country I’ve visited.

 

I glad I don’t remember

what I was told to forget.

What lingers has yet to be handled.

There will come a time

when no one remembers these events,

and no one remembers me.

 

I hear a train whistle in the distance.

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