I Won’t Remember

I won’t remember 

any of the things they said would be important.

I won’t remember graduating from anything. I won’t remember signing mortgage papers. I won’t remember partnerships or meetings. I won’t remember the deals I made, or the keys to a new car in my pocket.

I won’t remember the games I won. I won’t remember waking up to an empty gin bottle on the bedside table next to a stranger’s gold bracelet. I won’t remember being invited backstage or how much storage for my boat cost. I won’t remember worrying about getting caught.

I won’t remember expensive vacations in places ordinary people don’t know about, or unpronounceable foods served charred. I won’t remember the names of famous people I met. I won’t remember the raised voices in bars full of pretty people. I won’t remember the small cruelties, the sensible decisions I made because life is tough and the strong survive.

I never got a club membership. I never had a plan. I never figured out what it was all supposed to be. 

I will remember:

 the tick of a movie projector, a  backyard swimming pool, you colt-awkward and flickering in Super-8 light.

sideways cast of eyes, when you smiled just for me and nobody else saw it.

colored lights on patios at night.

the first time I heard your grownup voice on the telephone, feeling faint surprise that you were real.

ice cream and the L.A Dodgers, when we were little.

the liquor store parking lot, a pretty smile, summer afternoon, buying a fifth of lemon gin.

red-white-blue crepe paper, decorating my tricycle for a parade, a plastic horn with a rubber bulb, and bright-colored pinwheels.

the snarl and snap of Italian exhaust, my little car dressed up  with fat tires and peel-and-stick woodgrain on the dash.

laughing young women in slick Speedos and too-big sleeveless shirts.

cold spring mornings, Easter baskets full of green plastic grass and sugar.

sleeping on the beach when I couldn’t find a warmer bed, and not minding.

hot city streets, skies so bright they lost color, Max Webster up loud on the car radio.

the very first time I tasted someone’s lipstick, liking the slippery less than I thought I would—and later tasting the same kiss with original Chapstick, falling in love with the honesty, the sweetness.

the mildew smell of sleeping bag and tent, tin plates, amber water running over rocks, the shade of pine trees twenty degrees cooler than the day. 

the taste of charcoal-broiled burgers, holding the little cardboard takeout boxes in our laps, red-and-white cups of Coke, the smell of onion rings soaking yellow paper with their grease.

the rubber-band sound of a Beetle engine. I ate an ice cream sandwich with one hand and drove with the other. You were in charge of the shifter, and we laughed when you found the wrong gears.

the jet-plane roar of a roller coaster, the wheeeeee of Skee-Ball, the ringing of bells, all underlaid by the shush of pale blue surf.

my dad’s handwriting—checking the tags on presents Christmas Eve—the thrill when I saw my name.

maps spread on car hoods and not really caring where I went next, as long as the road went West.

the rattle of ten-speed gears as the bike nosed downhill and the wind in my face picked up.

a plastic lighter in my pocket at the Rocky Horror Picture Show.

cold-water dives into pale blue chlorine, then the perfume of clean towel and the blessing of warm cement.

the last report card of the year, stuffed into my backpack and I start to run.

the taste of grape licorice strings.

most of the stops on my paper route, the thump of news landing on porches, the feel of Sting-ray handlebar grips.

my mom’s hands, small but strong, the vein that ran to her ring finger. Lovely, but she always said my dad was the one with beautiful hands.

the first time a young woman said she loved me, thinking that from now on everything would be different.

metal-flake colors, double-A batteries, snapping together a Hot Wheels track.

the smell of Noxema and warm fig, the radiant polish on your toenails (but never your fingernails). 

shuffleboard after supper, the hollow sound of aluminum poles and the way the distant water turned purple as twilight came down. (Oh my, the ocean is big, isn’t it?)

Most of all, I’ll remember you.