I spoke to my father on Christmas Day. He remembered who I was. He doesn't always. But he seemed puzzled to hear that it was Christmas Day. He said, "Is it really Christmas? It can't be. None of the kids came up to see me. Not even Alan." I asked about Christmas decorations, and he said he hadn't noticed any. I asked about what he had for Christmas dinner and he said he didn't remember, it wasn't anything special. He lives in a very nice nursing home and I know that the staff will have tried hard to make the holidays festive for the residents. I'm sure there were decorations and a good dinner. My Dad just didn't notice any of that. "None of the kids came up to see me," he said again. "Not even Alan."
My husband pointed out, not unkindly, that people may have gone up to see him, but my Dad hadn't remembered they were there. I hope that's true, although the thought carries its own kind of sadness.
I wasn't there. But I remembered to call.
Forgetfulness
The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read, never even heard of,
as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.
Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses good-bye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,
something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.
Whatever it is you are struggling to remember
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of you spleen.
It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.
No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.
Billy Collins
