It is just past the anniversary of your father’s passing, and you are at work on a poem for him. You call it an ode to forgetting.
Among the many things you discovered about the first six months of grief is that it is voluminous and leaves little room for anything else. This, you think from the distance of eight years, is a superb defense mechanism. (At the time. you thought you were drowning.)
And, so, for this poem, you research everyday things people tend to forget: checking the mail; rolling out the trash; bringing their keys, wallet, textbook; feeding the fish.
And, you wonder how people could forget to feed the fish. Even when slightly hungry, most you’ve known swear they are starving, threaten to climb right out of the water.
