i.
"why do you forget important things?"
asks my mother
in the kitchen, near the toaster.
i am maybe 10.
her experience: lists constantly cycling through her head
that's how she makes sure she remembers
(repeating, repeating, repeating)
--
"when i pick you up, leave on time."
says my mother
in the car, in the living room, in every room.
"i'm not your chauffeur."
"i don't wait for you."
if i forget, it's because this wasn't important enough to me
to remember. that's what she says. it's because
she wasn't important enough.
--
when i scoot back the computer chair,
the screech of its legs scratching hardwood floor
reach my mother's ears, telling her
her request wasn't important enough to me
to remember.
ii.
"i miss you",
types my mother over google chat
while i'm sitting at the desk in my dorm room.
"could you message me good night or good morning
every day, so i know you're thinking of me?"
it's my first year living on my own.
i don't want to remember to do that.
i don't want to do that.
"i don't think i can do that"
--
i step out of the hospital
into harsh winter air
onto a bus heading home.
my mother calls me from the hospital
(her home for many weeks)
and does not remember that i said goodbye
to her half-awake and highly-drugged state.
"where are you? why did you leave me?"