I'm Starting to Forget

“Did he do that too?” people will ask, pointing at you, my first-born. 

I can’t remember. 

I rack my brain trying to think of when you were his age, my second-born. It shouldn’t be so hard, it was only a year or so ago. You’re so close in age and I have an excellent memory. 

But did you? 

I can’t remember. 

I wonder if the tiny life rolling inside of me might do the same thing. I wonder if I’ll remember. 

I scroll through dozens, hundreds of photos, phone turned away from your brother, still sleeping next to me, hoping one jogs my memory. I’ve taken so many - you know to preserve these fleeting moments, so I can remember years later. 

But I can’t remember. 

I’m already starting to forget. 

Forget how you used to say “sissy” with only zs. Forget when your first tooth emerged. 

I’m starting to forget the details that sparked so much joy, so much love. 

But I remember the joy. 

That lives in my bones, the part of my brain that is inaccessible to narrative, but ever-present to feel. The part that my body remembers, that pulls my shoulders down and the corners of my mouth up. The parts that slow the world around me, that water my eyes and expand my chest. 

I don’t have to remember those parts. Those parts are me. They’ve built me. They’ve built us. 

And if I keep looking back, searching for the date and time you changed. The date and time you changed me, I’ll miss it. I’ll miss the next moment that I’ll yearn to remember. 

A moment I’ll also forget. 

So yes, I’m starting to forget. And I still yet can’t predict. Predict what I might forget in the future. Predict what I may desperately want to hold on to. 

So I’ll center myself here. I’ll be right now. I’ll let the moments fill my body first. Only then will I cobble the details together in your baby books. I’ll hold them in my hands, the ones you place on your belly to pat, the ones who know that’s what you want without words. I’ll nestle them into my neck, in the spot you pull towards you in the night, eyes squeezed shut, your body looking for mine for comfort, because maybe your body remembers too.