AMNESIA

Why can’t I remember the way you smelled

the way you felt, the things you said

the day that grandpa died

When you held me to you

The only hug I can salvage from my past?

 

Why can’t I remember what you said the first day of kindergarten

When I slapped the teacher’s face

and squirmed out of her arms

Like a bar of wailing, wet soap slipping down the street ?

 

Why don’t I know how you felt those many years I left you longing for your son

In the silent house, that empty room,

With your restless maternal hands

Grasping at the ghosts in my room?

 

Why can’t I remember what you said that final Sunday

When your voice scratched across the miles

A phone line heavy with forgotten words

In a moment that will never be again?

 

Why can’t I remember?