I have forgotten so many things.
My brain is a dead-letter office of unopened correspondence
all addressed to “occupant”.
Whole years of my life shoved into dusty canvas sacks.
A warehouse of subjects learned and discarded
unclaimed, with no return address.
People’s names are gone.
Marching millions of neighbors,
friends,
co-workers, even family.
Why do I have ten second-cousins anyway?
Aaron and Jessica, and a bunch of blonde ones,
and
the dark-haired one,
the
one who laughed at the motorboat noise I made.
He was cute, and I remember his laugh
but
his name, no.
He’s probably in college now.
I wonder if he has the memory of a man
who
made a mean motorboat sound.
If he doesn’t it would serve me right.
Someday I’ll wander in among the piles,
dust
tickling my nose to force a sneeze
and
pick up a random yellowed envelope.
Parse out the postmark through a mildew stain.
I’ll force my finger under the envelope flap
and
rip away along the upper fold,
and
pull out the contents
and
remember everything
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