Rich Youmans

Lessons in Forgetting

Once you called me your brother’s name, another time your mother’s. One lazy morning while we were still in bed, you shook your head and said you couldn’t marry me. Sorry, I laughed, that ship has sailed, and you turned to frown at the ceiling. A few times, before you forgot how to answer the phone, I called to say I was leaving the office. You told me not to contact you again, that you were happily married. Good to hear, I said, knowing that by the time I got home I’d be someone else.

Every time you called me Robert or Adeline or Mark, I wanted to talk about our long-ago honeymoon on Cape Cod, to show you that photo taken by Chatham Lighthouse: your back to the sea, that big smile bordering on laughter, your hair blowing wildly as if it too felt limitless. That was you, I would have said. But all I ever did was nod. Eventually, you couldn’t say anything, and the VNA nurse came daily. You slept most days as she kept watch. I kept as quiet as possible. Except for that one afternoon, when you woke up and saw me, and that big smile appeared out of nowhere. Look, the nurse said, she remembers.

overgrown garden
the flower known
by scent alone

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About the Author

Rich Youmans lives on Cape Cod with his wife, Alice. His books include All the Windows Lit (Snapshot Press, 2017) and Head-On (Red Bird Chapbooks, 2018).