Forgetting Memory

They are starting to remember.

Abe found his hands today.
He’s had them all along, but he just realized.

It’s beautiful to watch…

We could learn a lot from babies:
Contentment and amazement and all that.

He smiles a lot, now, too.
Smiles, for smiling’s sake.
When’s the last time you smiled? Just because.

Ben laughed this morning because I made a fart noise with my mouth.

I love to hear my children laugh.
I’ve often said that their laughs will be my music
When I reach the Other side.

We could learn a lot from children.
They always seem to find the miraculous in the mundane:
Contentment and amazement and all that.

Anna is beautiful and smart.
She amazes me, too.
I take her for granted,
And I fear that she knows.

She’s very smart.

Merrie Cannon scares me.
She’s starting not to think about her hands.

She watches television. Plays with dolls.
She’s starting to talk: Hat. Cat. Girl. Dog. Thank you.

She has memory.
And we all know where that leads…

Abe recognizes. And reacts.
“I’m hungry.” I’m crying.
“Hey, look! There are those finger-things again…”

But memory will come. It won’t be long.

Soon daddy’s voice will frighten and scold and direct and demand.
Soon Mama will be more than shiny teeth and warmth and scent.

It won’t be long.

Memory comes, and we forget.

Abe finds his hands and smiles.
We all laugh.
Seems like the first time.

And then I remember.

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