Three generations of women in my family
had embraced oblivion
before my mother lost her sense of smell.
Let me tell you something
about the process of forgetting:
it starts
with car keys
you don't know where
you've placed.
Then
there is the repetition of
ordinary stories which,
on lucky days,
are heard just twice.
The next big thing is
losing the sense of smell,
being unable to tell
your favorite perfume
from the stink of a dead cat
across the street.
When I was little,
the house would
always smell
like pineapples
on my birthdays.
The smell is a bridge
to the memory of
having been there and
because I remember it,
I can always go back.
My grandmother lived with us
for six months before passing.
She smelled like soil
but she wouldn't remember.
She is the one to be held responsible
for me starting to put words together.
So here is the answer to your question:
In a few years, I may not remember -
this is the reason why I write.
Because although I hold you high,
I don't know your smell.
But I will always find you in the words
'mouth', 'waterfall' and 'bassinet',
my bridge to you may never be
other than the written code.
This is why it's
so important to me
that you remember.
(To M.)
(This poem is an answer to an argument around a question on who would or wouldn't remember the other in ten years)
(Shared with The Imaginary Garden)
