She does not remember how she got the bruises on her arms or going for a walk with you earlier this morning. She does not remember bending over, during that walk, and plucking a flower from a neighbor’s front yard and slipping it into her hair. Maybe your father will kiss me now. She does not remember what she ate for dinner last night, or when she last took her medicine. She does not remember to drink enough water. She does not remember to comb her hair.
She remembers the rows of dried persimmons that once hung from the eaves of her mother’s house in Berkeley. They were the most beautiful shade of orange. She remembers that your father loves peaches. She remembers that every Sunday morning, at ten, he takes her for a drive down to the sea in the brown car. She remembers that every evening, right before the eight o’clock news, he sets out two fortune cookies on a paper plate and announces to her that they are having a party. She remembers that on Mondays he comes home from the college at four, and if he is even five minutes late she goes out to the gate and begins to wait for him. She remembers which bedroom is hers and which is his. She remembers that the bedroom that is now hers was once yours. She remembers that it wasn’t always like this.
She remembers the first line of the song “How High the Moon.” She remembers the Pledge of Allegiance. She remembers her Social Security number. She remembers her best friend Jean’s telephone number even though Jean has been dead for six years. She remembers that Margaret is dead. She remembers that Betty is dead. She remembers that Grace has stopped calling. She remembers that her own mother died nine years ago, while spading the soil in her garden, and she misses her more and more every day. It doesn’t go away. She remembers the number assigned to her family by the government right after the start of the war: 13611. She remembers being sent away to the desert with her mother and brother during the fifth month of that war and taking her first ride on a train. She remembers the day they came home: September 9, 1945. She remembers the sound of the wind hissing through the sagebrush. She remembers the scorpions and red ants. She remembers the taste of dust.
Whenever you stop by to see her, she remembers to give you a big hug, and you are always surprised at her strength. She remembers to give you a kiss every time you leave. She remembers to tell you, at the end of every phone call, that the FBI will check up on you again soon. She remembers to ask you if you would like her to iron your blouse for you before you go out on a date. She remembers to smooth down your skirt. Don’t give it all away. She remembers to brush aside a wayward strand of your hair. She does not remember eating lunch with you twenty minutes ago and suggests that you go out to Marie Callender’s for sandwiches and pie. She does not remember that she herself once used to make the most beautiful pies, with perfectly fluted crusts. She does not remember how to iron your blouse for you or when she began to forget. Something’s changed. She does not remember what she is supposed to do next.
She remembers that the daughter who was born before you lived for half an hour and then died. She looked perfect from the outside. She remembers her mother telling her, more than once, Don’t you ever let anyone see you cry. She remembers giving you your first bath on your third day in the world. She remembers that you were a very fat baby. She remembers that your first word was No. She remembers picking apples in a field with Frank many years ago in the rain. It was the best day of my life. She remembers that the first time she met him she was so nervous, she forgot her own address. She remembers wearing too much lipstick. She remembers not sleeping for days.
When you drive past Hesse Park, she remembers being asked to leave her exercise class by her teacher after being in that class for more than ten years. I shouldn’t have talked so much. She remembers touching her toes and doing windmills and jumping jacks on the freshly mown grass. She remembers being the highest kicker in her class. She does not remember how to use the “new” coffeemaker, which is now three years old, because it was bought after she began to forget. She does not remember asking your father, ten minutes ago, if today is Sunday, or if it is time to go for her ride. She does not remember where she last put her sweater or how long she has been sitting in her chair. She does not always remember how to get out of that chair, and so you gently push down on the footrest and offer her your hand, which she does not always remember to take. Go away, she sometimes says. Other times, she just says, I’m stuck. She does not remember saying to you, the other night, right after your father left the room, He loves me more than I love him. She does not remember saying to you, a moment later, I can hardly wait until he comes back.
She remembers that when your father was courting her he was always on time. She remembers thinking that he had a nice smile. He still does. She remembers that when they first met he was engaged to another woman. She remembers that that other woman was white. She remembers that that other woman’s parents did not want their daughter to marry a man who looked like the gardener.
She remembers that the winters were colder back then, and that there were days on which you actually had to put on a coat and scarf. She remembers her mother bowing her head every morning at the altar and offering her ancestors a bowl of hot rice. She remembers the smell of incense and pickled cabbage in the kitchen. She remembers that her father always wore nice shoes. She remembers that the night the FBI came for him, he and her mother had just had another big fight. She remembers not seeing him again until after the end of the war.
She does not always remember to trim her toenails, and when you soak her feet in the bucket of warm water, she closes her eyes and leans back in her chair and reaches out for your hand. Don’t give up on me. She does not remember how to tie her shoelaces or fasten the hooks on her bra. She does not remember that she has been wearing her favorite blue blouse for five days in a row. She does not remember your age. Just wait till you have children of your own, she says to you, even though you are now too old to do so.
She remembers that after the first girl was born and then died, she sat in the yard for days, just staring at the roses by the pond. I didn’t know what else to do. She remembers that when you were born, you too had your father’s long nose. It was as if I’d given birth to the same girl twice. She remembers that you are a Taurus. She remembers that your birthstone is green. She remembers to read you your horoscope from the newspaper whenever you come over to see her. Someone you were once very close to may soon reappear in your life, she tells you. She does not remember reading you that same horoscope five minutes ago or going to the doctor with you last week after you discovered a bump on the back of her head. I think I fell. She does not remember telling the doctor that you are no longer married or giving him your number and asking him to please call. She does not remember leaning over and whispering to you, the moment he stepped out of the room, I think he’ll do.