Sometimes I forget she died
Sometimes I forget she died and it’s not until I stop everything I’m doing that I remember she did. It’s not until I see the president speak, work sixteen hours straight or consider ordering French Onion Soup. It’s not until I find that emory board she was always looking for or the wedding pictures I never asked to see. It’s not until I reach for my phone and dial a number I went and had cancelled myself. (Old habits die hard, right?)
It’s not until I need help.
Which insurance card do I use for my prescriptions? Are taxes a thing yet? Will putting my bed next to my heater set my apartment on fire? Would you microwave this?
It’s not until “Hear You Me” by Jimmy Eat World comes on the radio because of course it fucking did, or “Blurred Lines” because she hated it–just like she hated Robin Thicke. I’m not sure how she felt about Jim Adkins, but she did like the Black Eyed Peas.
It’s not until it’s six a.m. and I’m sweating through her tee-shirt from one of two recurring dreams where she’s screaming for help but I’m paralyzed, and she’s still alive but I can’t call her.
It’s not until it rains.
It’s not until it snows.
It’s not until I’m sad.
It’s not until I’m happy.
Sometimes I forget she died, but then I remember.