"I never forget you, Mom," she said.
"I never forget you either, Melina," I answered.
Her brown eyes peered into mine, the dim light of the setting sun illuminating the skin above her soft eyebrows. She puckered her lips together and placed a light kiss on my nose before turning her body over and sighing. I, in turn, blinked away a tear.
Never.
What a word; what a concept. Never is something that Melina really doesn't understand. A word rarely (dare I say never?) used in our house because of its finality. But Melina chose the present tense, so she is correct in her assessment. I never forget her. I never forget to pick out the clothes she likes; I never forget to retrieve her from preschool; I never forget how she loves cucumbers but dislikes pickles; I never forget the simple laugh that floats from her mouth as she spins like a ballerina in our living room.
I'd like to be able to say that forgetting her will never happen. But because she can't truly grasp the idea of the word never, I can't possibly ask her to understand that one day, without my permission, I will likely forget her. When I am old and decrepit and the plaques in my brain have woven their threads between the healthy neurons and taken my memories away, I will forget her. The tangles will have twisted around my nerve cells, sending me back into the past, keeping me from the present, prohibiting a future. I won't know that the lady before me once held my face between her sticky hands, or that the corn silk waist length hair belonged to her. I won't recognize that she is my daughter, my fourth born, my special fashion loving, superhero who once told me, every day, that she loves me. I might acknowledge that she has warm brown eyes, but I won't comprehend that those eyes once stared at me and spoke of never forgetting.
Instead, the tables will have turned. "I will never forget you, Mom," she will say, taking my wrinkled cheeks between her soft clean hands and placing her usual soft kiss upon my nose or forehead. But even that, we know isn't true. The circle of life will turn again, and someday, she, too, will forget me.
"I never forget you either, Melina," I answered.
Her brown eyes peered into mine, the dim light of the setting sun illuminating the skin above her soft eyebrows. She puckered her lips together and placed a light kiss on my nose before turning her body over and sighing. I, in turn, blinked away a tear.
Never.
What a word; what a concept. Never is something that Melina really doesn't understand. A word rarely (dare I say never?) used in our house because of its finality. But Melina chose the present tense, so she is correct in her assessment. I never forget her. I never forget to pick out the clothes she likes; I never forget to retrieve her from preschool; I never forget how she loves cucumbers but dislikes pickles; I never forget the simple laugh that floats from her mouth as she spins like a ballerina in our living room.
I'd like to be able to say that forgetting her will never happen. But because she can't truly grasp the idea of the word never, I can't possibly ask her to understand that one day, without my permission, I will likely forget her. When I am old and decrepit and the plaques in my brain have woven their threads between the healthy neurons and taken my memories away, I will forget her. The tangles will have twisted around my nerve cells, sending me back into the past, keeping me from the present, prohibiting a future. I won't know that the lady before me once held my face between her sticky hands, or that the corn silk waist length hair belonged to her. I won't recognize that she is my daughter, my fourth born, my special fashion loving, superhero who once told me, every day, that she loves me. I might acknowledge that she has warm brown eyes, but I won't comprehend that those eyes once stared at me and spoke of never forgetting.
Instead, the tables will have turned. "I will never forget you, Mom," she will say, taking my wrinkled cheeks between her soft clean hands and placing her usual soft kiss upon my nose or forehead. But even that, we know isn't true. The circle of life will turn again, and someday, she, too, will forget me.
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