The biggest lie I tell myself
is that I don\'t need to
write it down. Memory, my
trusty old retriever, will fetch
every detail, every thought,
like a newspaper tossed
onto the lawn at dawn.
But the truth is my memory
is a mischievous cat,
slipping under furniture,
swatting at loose threads
of conversations, batting
away the names of books
I meant to read someday.
Even now, I can sense
it curling up in a sunny
corner of my brain, purring
contentedly while I search
for the name of that movie
we watched last spring,
the one with the actor
whose face I can picture,
clear as this morning light
scattering across the kitchen
table where I sit, pen poised
to scribble reminders, so I won\'t
forget like the time I swore
I’d call my mother back.
But no, I trust myself to
remember, to hold onto
fragments of days like a
favorite sweater, which I
always seem to lose in
the back of a closet, or
leave on the bus seat.
So here I am again,
promising myself that,
next time, I\'ll write it down,
but the paper remains blank,
awaiting words like declarations
that slip through my fingers,
sand trailing into oblivion.