What I Forgot

I began to forget his face.
I began to forget if he ever loved me.
I forgot about other things.
About Philip.
I forgot if it was winter or spring or summer or fall.
I forget if it happened more than twice, over months, over years.
I forgot if he spoke to me.
I forgot if it was dusk or dawn.
I forgot if my mom was home.
If I was looking for someone else or if I meant to find him waiting.
I forgot if I was loved in proper ways.
I forgot my birthday parties.
Christmas presents.
I forgot if the sheriff knew.
If I told her with my eyes and my hands.
I forgot if she acknowledged it to me.
I forgot the drive home.
I forgot what my mother might have said.
What she may have let me talk about.
If she hugged me anyway.
If she meant to protect me.
If she forgot when I lived with him.
When she was too poor to live in her own house with her own kids.
I forgot if I was supposed to understand it was all right now.
Now that my sister went to trial and nothing was done about it.
If he was punished in anyway.
If he suffered.
If he acted like it never happened even back then.
I forgot if I was supposed to forgive him.
If anyone forgave him.
If his two brothers knew.
If they cared about their nieces.
If we meant anything to them.
Before his parents died, I forgot if my grandparents knew how he abused little girls.
I forgot if they hated their own son.
If they forgave him or if they never believed anything.
I forgot how Jeremy was.
If he ever knew back then what was happening behind closed doors.
I forgot if Philip understood.
If he was ever normal.
If he apologized for asking for too much.
I forgot about my father’s first born son.
About his first wife.
If she protected her children, her daughter, Toni.
I forgot if we were friends.
If she played with me.
I forgot if she got out alive.
If she went bad like her half brother.
I forgot how old she was, how much younger than my sister, how much older than me.
I forgot if there were others.
If he tried to touch Ashley.
She was hardly two or three.
I forgot if he ever came close to her.
If she was spared at least that one less atrocity.
I forgot if I ever protested.
If I ever tried to get away from him.
If I managed to shut the door before he noticed me.
I forgot if I said a word.
If it wasn’t a silent movie.
I forgot at least this much.
Who’s to say I haven’t forgotten more.
I did not, however, forget it all.
 
1-24-01

Throat

I remember more than I want to admit
More than I can say out loud.
So much of it has never passed
through my vocal chords.
I can recall a picture at will.
I went so far as to type it out.
I can hold the pages in hand,
but I am afraid to see them.
Afraid to hear them read aloud.
It remains in my stomach,
where I stuffed it.
Sometimes it surges up like vomit
and I catch it in my throat.
It’s like a rope pulled tighter.
My pain sits and I can not speak.
I am voiceless.
I find other things to talk about.
It settles back down.
I move on.
I have ulcers.


1-21-01

When I Leave Los Angeles…

I will feel jealous of the aunts and uncles

that will get to see Joshua every week,
and see him grow, and watch him learn,
and hear him quote lines he does not understand.
Sure, he’ll come and visit me
and remember my name on holidays and nightly prayers,
but he’ll forget why I was his favorite aunt until age five,
how we used to dance to 80’s music in my living room,
how we drove to the pier and ate fried clams,
how I loved to hold him while he slept,
and protect him from jumping dogs

that didn’t mean to push him on his rear.

He’ll begin school in fall and forget
to wonder how long it’s been since
he came to my house to pet me cat.
On holidays, he’ll begin to have memories

of traveling to far away places

where I hug him tight and tell him how much he’s grown.

He may get tired of my kisses and forget

how he spent long afternoons walking in parks

and watering my front lawn. Someday he’ll visit

and meet cousins he’ll be too old to play with.
The years will pass and he’ll visit less,
until I am a memory in photographs
and a name on the family tree, “Aunt Sarah.”
He will not remember how I loved him like my own

or how my heart burst with joy when from his car seat

in the back of my car he sighed, “You know what?

I love you Auntie Sarah.”

1-20-01