Remembering the Forgotten

Sometimes I think we forget.
I don’t remember what we forget,
I’ve forgotten.
But sometimes, we forget.

We remember too.
The flashing anger in the eyes,
The crash of glass on a wooden floor,
The sting of pain spanning the cheek,
The stretch of agonizing silence that follows.
That’s what we remember.

But the anger…
What spurred it?
Did I do something?
Say something?
Not say something?
I’ve forgotten.

The glass.
Who did the throwing?
Why? Why would they throw it?
It was crystal, expensive I’m sure.
Wasn’t it a gift?
Wedding or something…
Hell to clean up.

The contact of hand on cheek echoed.
Only disturbed by the door,

That’s what I remember.
It’s no help.
Can’t remember what I’ve forgotten…


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