I remember nights with doors that slammed.
Raised voices running like engines,
Revving through the walls around my bed.
And what would follow,
Was typical at best.
These nights stand out more than any other.
These days,
We argue quiet.
We force tough stressed syllables,
through clenched teeth and burning eyes
And the theater of it,
is gone.
I found a grocery list.
They needed gum, water, and two kinds of Coke
We make lists,
In order to remember,
And in this way,
We forget
With the release of a twitching wrist.
The last few months were drifts.
I slept on couches, until the couches ran out,
I ducked into unlocked offices, until the cleaners came,
I slept on streets and under benches until I was prodded by brave children,
And policemen.
I slept under a Chevy Nova one night, and crawled out when I heard his front door open,
And was chased down Washington,
Backwards like my memory,
In pastures and fields
Of progress and regrets.
I got through it.
I always get through it.
I’m stable now.
Except for the arguments.
My memory is a haze,
There are distant voices, and sweet places,
There are taciturn misers, and talkative fiends.
There are rash decisions and epiphanies drenched in sweat.
I go to work, and I find myself remembering these things.
Then I come home.
The phone rang late the other night,
The caller id read “Payphone,”
I answered immediately,
It could only be him,
I guess families sense these things
and he whispers,
“Come and get me,”
I stopped the truck in front of every dive,
And peered in,
Reluctant and scared,
And scanned the crowd,
My feet never even touched the floor, I swear
But there was no face,
Not the one I wanted,
I avoided his street and his frame,
For years I turned my head at every possibility
And studied the floors and streets nervous,
Rehearsing the reunion in my head
I was terrified of what he might not say.
Or if he’d even remember.
We rehearse in order to remember,
And in this way,
We remember,
The trouble of forgetting
When I got home, I didn’t sleep.
I rested my feet on the table,
and I watched cable,
There is no such thing as relief.
This is a wave that will never break.
I had this spot in my room, where I stashed away stuff I didn’t want him to find.
It was in the back of this green chair that faced the window.
I hid my empty bottles, my work for school and pictures of us.
One day, he figured it out.
He had turned the chair over and poured it all out.
In my room was broken glass and the pictures, stained.
He didn’t like that I lied to him.
People always say,
That he was teaching me something.
Whether he knew it or not.
I got another phone call today.
The coroner asked me down,
I came.
He pulled his door open, and out
He came.
We had our reunion.
He was pale and weathered.
His body acquainted with the road I was offered.
We forget things,
In order to remember.
