Forgetting
I remember our first dates
eating barbecue in Papa Willie’s as lunch turned to
dinner
riding your motorcycle to see the countryside, secretly
scared to death
the orange Gatorade staining your mouth as we sat on
the concrete picnic table
I remember not wanting a third date
“No,” I answered
I was too ambivalent, too unready to date again
I cut you off and left for the beach
I remember driving home
getting the call that you and your parents were in a
freak accident
a car crashed through a restaurant window, hitting you
all as you ate dinner
you were staying at their house as you all recovered
I remember the church bringing food as you all healed
I signed up for pineapple and raisin glazed ham
delivered it and saw you sitting in a chair,
deliberately not looking up at me
and that was when I realized I’d made a mistake
I remember thinking what a bitch I’d been
feeling the urge to apologize and find out what you’d
been through
texting you, “Do you want to talk?”
my heart skipping a beat with your reply: “Well, YEAH!”
I remember the phone ringing
you didn’t waste a second
we talked for hours about the accident, about my trip,
about us
you asked me out again, and I accepted
I remember our next dates
walks in the Griffin city park,
sitting on a swing,
talking hours on end, conducting “traffic counts”
I remember our first kiss
you opened the car door for me, took my seatbelt and
fastened it
your lips accidentally brushed mine as you backed out of
the car
“There you go,” I smiled, and kissed you back, and then
kissed you again.
I remember the Valentine’s date to see Gordon Lightfoot in concert
finding a smashed trinket ring in the parking lot
probably a Cracker Jack surprise, tucking it in my pocket
humming “Rainy Day People” all the way home
I remember our memorable walks in the Griffin city park,
but none more so than the day you left the swing
and got down on one knee, and reached in your pocket
and proposed with the Cracker Jack ring that you’d
resurrected with pliers
I remember your royal blue shirt and your jeans and the love in
your eyes
and the matching royal blue car speeding by
a teenage boy fist-pumping cheers out the window as he
watched you propose
and answering “Yes,” even before you said, “I want us to
choose a better ring together.”
I remember our tenth anniversary
lying in bed, late at night, when you rolled over and said,
“Oh no!”
alarmed, I sat up. “What?!”
“I forgot what today was, and I just remembered,” you
sorrowfully confessed
I remember that I, too, did not realize it was our tenth anniversary
until you reminded me
there are 365 days in a year, and an anniversary should
be celebrated
especially a tenth anniversary
but when two people love the way we do every day, it’s
so easy to forget…
-Kim Johnson
Common Threads 