When she forgets, I forget. The forgetfulness washes over me like a wave, engulfing and consuming me. I go to bed on a cloud of blissful unawareness, not knowing to dread the coming day. I wake up in the dead of night, wondering if I forgot, so I ask her. Like I said, when she forgets I forget. When I hear the rumble, a warning for the coming day, perhaps the week, in the morning, I know. I’ve made a mistake. My neighbor forgot to leave the trash by the side of the road, and when she forgets, I forget too.
By Abigail Kyriakidis