How Good Is Your Memory

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Mine is still pretty sharp. I can remember things most of my family has forgotten. I still remember the clothes my husband and I wore the day we met, and that was another lifetime ago. I found this poem a long time ago. I don't know who wrote it. I wish I had, but I thought it was cute. I hope you enjoy it. Wine With Breakfast Life is so much easier than I thought it would be. In the beginning I learned about self and separation, then there were jobs, marriage, and children, and I remember always wanting to be someone. Now I’m older, and chairs are more comfortable. It’s morning, and the waitress serves the wine. Boats move down the river towards the sea. Three children stand by the railing with their mother. Somewhere down along the shore a dog is barking. I can still remember where I parked the car. I can also recall someone saying, Life is like that. I reply, Life is like that when we settle for something less, then again, we’re lucky: we speak English well, and the something less is air-conditioned with a view. Does anyone remember what it was like without these pills? The afternoons come and go to dinner with my husband. The conversations recall beautiful destinations as my mind wanders back to childhood adventures. I don’t admit to the tears in my eyes. I’m feeling: I am not so much older as I am still that child on the floor with the color books. In my later years, I’ll begin to tell them I can fly! I’ll say, redundantly, There’s still a spark in the embers of this old fire. Here and now, outside my bedroom window, belching crows congregate in an old apricot tree, waking me towards another day of just the same. Except today I won’t tip the waitresses quite so much. Prologue (we must always try to add a beginning): We sit together at a table by a window. The waitress brings menus. Him: There’s a point where a man must stop fighting with his possibilities. Her: Life should become less about becoming who we think we’ll become. Me: If we’re observant, we might conclude that destiny is self-imposing. People at adjacent tables come and go, different in ways that once mattered. Him: Where are the straw men who used to stand in our gardens? Her: They were always good at just being themselves. Me: Even when the crows were laughing... Later, I smile and try to remember what I ordered. It doesn’t matter. I still like surprises.