He remembers her, some days—
days when dry leaves run together
like rushing water.
Despite what they will say later,
he doesn't remember her all the time.
How could he? The best days are the ones he manages to
forget, when one hour easily passes to the next,
thoughts only barely stirring like
slow, waking birds.
The problem comes when he remembers
and doesn't know why.
If it's not the leaves,
it's a certain shade to the sunlight
that recalls the way it filtered through her hair.
It's in the satin of discarded flower petals,
and then it's her small hand in his.
It's in her favorite kind of curry
(vindaloo, extra spicy),
the last book she read,
the careful swoop of her handwriting.
He's not trying to be loyal, remembering her.
He wishes he could not be, because
some days,
her presence is a rope around his neck.
For him, remembrance is,
as much as the leaves, or the sun, or breathing,
or his thoughts,
circling
hour by hour in raging swarms.
