I Can't Remember

Bitter Root

I can’t remember much about the last time I saw my daughter. I can’t remember the date or precisely how many years it’s been. I can’t remember if we both had frappuccinos at the Starbucks where we met, or if she had something else. I can’t remember if we indulged the sweet tooth we shared by choosing something from the pastry case.

I can’t remember what she wore, or what I wore. I can’t remember how she wore her hair, whether it was kinky or straightened, long or short, in spite of her comments about my newly gray hair. I can’t remember for sure the shape of her figure then; she wouldn’t have been happy with it no matter what. I can’t remember if I was in a skinny place or a chubby place myself.

I can’t remember what we said to each other once we’d covered the summer weather and condition of the I-5 freeway traffic as we journeyed from our respective homes to that central spot. I can’t remember how much time passed after that meeting before she stopped driving altogether. I can’t remember when I realized, much later, just what it meant that she no longer drove.

I can’t remember clearly the feel of her hug or whether we kissed. I can’t remember the texture of the curve of her face in my palm. I can’t remember the precise shade of brown of her eyes or her skin or her hair.

I can’t remember her scent.

I can’t remember whether our greeting hugs and goodbye hugs that day felt anything like our very first reunion hugs when she was twenty-four. I can’t remember what she said about why it had been so long since she was willing to see me. I can’t remember what she said about future visits, whether she promised more or hedged her bets.

I can’t remember whether I was convincing when I told her I loved her. I can’t remember whether my words reflected my fear of being hurt by her and my reluctance to impose myself where I felt I had no right to be. I can’t remember if her face told me whether she knew just how much I loved her.

I can’t remember if she asked questions, if she wanted to know about my life, or just needed to tell me about hers. I can’t remember what she told me about her children, or her husband, or her adoptive family. I can’t remember which medical crisis she was in the midst of for that visit. I can't remember which previous ones she might have shared stories about.

I can’t remember what her hopes were for her future – she was young enough to still have unlimited possibilities in front of her. I can’t remember if she might have hinted at the inner demons she lived with. I can’t remember if in her laughter and cheerful banter there was a darkness I didn’t want to see or know.

I can’t remember her last words to me as we parted at the end of a long afternoon, the summer light begun to fade. I can’t remember my last words to her. I can’t remember the exact time she was no longer there, the exact moment her face was gone from my sight, the exact second that was our last.

I can’t remember why I didn’t work harder to remember every detail of what felt like a second reunion in the same way I claimed our first reunion. I can’t remember having any sense at all that there wouldn’t be more time, more days and years and visits in which to experience everything that was my daughter. 

Written in response to an assignment for a Lisa Romeo class I'm taking where every sentence was to start with "I can't remember."

Photo by Walt, taken at Catherine Creek.