I Finally Forgot

Unconscious, perhaps,
but last night the thought
to call you seemed as normal 
as a weekend night of your
bay area stays.

It was the first time.
Brief, odd. Though it didn't hurt
as much as I had thought it would,
it did catch me by haunting surprise.

Wow. It finally happened.
Almost three years late.

When Jay committed suicide
the aftershock was horror.
Did I have the urge to call him,
or was it the waking up the
next morning that reminded me
of its finality - that it had
actually happened?

I don't know - don't remember - 
as it's been fifteen years and 
I could simply be absorbing the
violent aftershock meant for his mom,
my forever-changed aunt.

I've endured other shocking deaths,
like Brian. Another suicide. He was
our first "practice child" - he and
his sister. But we didn't see them 
anymore, too many years and miles
had grown between us. Was it
the same kind of "he's gone" shock 
and forgetting? I don't think there
were urges to call, just sadness.
And horror. 
Another cousin down.
Another too young lost to forever.

So when you were diagnosed with
this-is-still-too-young-to-die, I guess
I had many months to remember 
it was real.

Caring for you, feeding you soup, 
lifting your arms onto pillows,
hoisting you down into that chair 
with as much expertise as an
unexpectant widow-to-be
anchored our reality into my bones
while yours lost the support of your 
atrophying muscles.

I was sure I would wake up to,
"Did he really die?" on Thursday,
two days after you left us.
Wednesday was a rollover of
your leaving; making things safe
and okay, and hosting friends 
to view your body at our home.
Giving our kids and myself more
time to be with you.
There were things to do,
no time for forgetting.

But Thursday was open, new.
Your body had been taken, 
reverently by gloved strangers;
the living room now empty
of your hospital bed.
Only flowers and incense remained.
And our girls.

We thought we'd walk down 
to the river.
Instead, a phone call rerouted us
to the hospital to bring 
my mom home for round two.

Hospice, round two.
More morphine in small, 
undesired doses.
The remembrance to stay
in my body to next walk her
to her sacred threshold.
Which we did, just ten days
after your journey to 'notherland.

Days, months, years have gone 
by, cloaked in shades of grief.
But I never forgot.

Sure there were times - too
many to name - that I'd stop
in disrupted storyline, so
confused that it had been
revised so drastically. 
Without my consent.

But last night, the forgetting
was so real it took me to
genuine, "I'm going to call Eric"
in that assured split-second.
It felt like a time you were
working in the bay area,
gone for just the week,
our touchstone between
weekends, voice to voice.

But the instant of forgetting
ended with an exclamation point
of, "there it is!" As if my practical
mind had been wondering if
I'd ever forget you actually died,
since that forgetting seemed
natural, vitally shocking the 
system back to the necessity
of purging grief.

As much as I had dreaded it,
the forgetting, the urge to call you, 
was more tender with me
than I anticipated.
Soft, almost sacred - a warm
and painful embrace of our love.
Your heart calling to check in
through the vastness of 
our separation.
​

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