Forgetting What We Talk About When We Talk About… What Was It?

By Casey Flynn

I.

You sit on the precipice

of my memory. Over

the edge is a vacuum,

though not like space

beyond the atmosphere

or that video of a feather

falling like stone

through an airless box.

No, I mean the kind

that sucks the dead

skin and hair and dirt

and detritus of life.

It sucks, but you

are not at risk

of being siphoned

from my mind.

I’m not that far gone

yet.

--

Vacuous — a word

whose meaning never stuck

until I crept to the edge

alongside you and peered over.

Now I get it. Emptied out

of something that should be there.

I guess it really is like the airless box

but without the feather:

devoid of the matter

that makes up the past.

--

Old friends and estranged siblings

exchange shared stories, each adding

some color or flavor until

together they see and taste

the same thing. Or at least

think they do, and that’s enough.

‘Be with my memories,

I’ll be with yours

and we’ll be together now,

perhaps.’

--

When you smile and ask,

‘do you remember when…’

I say no and listen

to your stories

of our life.

--

Our children,

their moments

and milestones,

silly sayings,

subtle teachings,

all slip away

silently.

--

This isn’t dementia,

that late-in-life demon

that darkens the futures

of so many.

This is forgetting,

that everyday thief

that picks pockets

of stashed moments.

But demons

are familiars

in the company

of thieves

and the terror

of losing my mind

trolls behind

every misplaced memory.

II.

I sit on the precipice

of my memory. Over

the edge is a clear void,

empty of space and time.

Ideas of who I was

which make up who I am

glide soundlessly past

and are gone.

I look

for your sparkling

eyes.

I listen

for the laughter

of our children.

I listen.