I Forgot to Breathe

 

I saw a gorgeous man at the café. He might have been 23.  I forgot I was 66 years old.

I also forgot I was a lesbian.

Oh, and that I was married.

I forgot when I run, my back can hurt for days, and sometimes my hips give in.  In my heart, I am skipping and running with the wind, the sky, the song.

I forgot how much my heart was holding, even before I went to work in the hospital every day.  I never forgot my beloved was being treated for a terminal illness.   I forgot to cry about the toll it took on my spirit, until I wasn’t holding the hands and comforting patients anymore.

I forgot I will need my beautiful baby as I age, to feed and dress me.

I forgot how much I crave the quiet and endless time without interruptions.

I forgot how much I miss you when I am alone.

I forgot to breathe. It might lead to crying, and then lead to wailing, which could lead to despair.

I forgot I can handle despair.

I forgot to listen to the trees and the plants.  I forgot their language.

I forgot a longer life means I might start to forget; turning off the stove, the names of people we know, and I can’t remember what else.

I forgot my password to my password file.

I forgot I have grey hair and my skin hangs.  I feel like I am 20. Ok, maybe 35.

I forgot I never really had that boyfriend I always knew I would marry.

I forgot the name of my hamster and turtle I loved as a child.

I forgot how to live without parents.

I forgot to breathe.