by Cornelia Channing

I forgot to call that hotel where we stayed in White Sulphur Springs
about your shoes that you’re sure you left under the bed but which I quite remember
you wearing in the lobby of that casino in Nashville the day after. I forgot to
pick up the dog food. I forgot to drink eight glasses of water. I forgot to tell you
that I hate it when you walk in front of me on the sidewalk.
I forgot to stop for gas on the way home from the movie about the fisherman
and ended up on the side of the highway thinking of trout. I forgot the address
of our old apartment. I forgot the names of the planets. I forgot about that
restaurant we used to go to as kids where our parents would smoke outside
and we stole those peppermint candies from the dish. I forgot the smell of cigarettes
on jackets. I forgot about the time I scared you with my foot under the table.
I forgot how much I like Irish music. I forgot how to behave myself and then remembered.
I forgot to order the dressing on the side at that Greek Diner
we like and the salad got soggy like it does. I forgot the words to that Ashlee Simpson
song I used to love. I forgot to tip the guy for cleaning my windshield and
the perfect streak-free shine is blinding. I forgot that I don’t like oysters
unless cooked so long in butter that they resemble coins. I forgot to move the car
when the street sweep came so I got a fat ticket. I forgot about the nice old woman
who used to work at the bookstore on Bay Street that and what happened to her.
I forgot to back up my computer. I forgot to add ¾ cups buttermilk
to the batter. I forgot to cancel my subscription. I forgot to remind you to call
your sister. I forgot about the pasta pizza we ordered from Nike’s on 189th street
and so we fell asleep and when we woke up it was on the front stoop dusted in snow.
I forgot that name you used to call me. I forgot what flavor you asked for so I just got
all of them. I forgot to watch the news. I forgot about global warming and mass incarceration
and abortion referendums and police brutality and institutionalized racism and gun control
for four seconds. I forgot to meditate. I forgot about the fight we had in Maine.
I forgot about Maine. I forgot the feeling of pulling ticks off my ankles.
I forgot holding cold hands in warm armpits. I forgot the sound of crunching gravel
in the driveway when mom comes home from dinner. I forgot to get a flu shot. I forgot what
it felt like to sleep alone in a big bed and not wish for less space. I forgot that I was
a little girl running barefoot through grass for hundreds of years before I met you.

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Cornelia Channing is an MFA Candidate in creative writing at Stony Brook University in Southampton, NY. Her work has appeared in The Southampton Review, Public Pool, Method Magazine, and The Stethoscope Press. A chapter of her forthcoming novel will be published in East Magazine next month. She lives in Bridgehampton, NY with her dog, Tucker.