They say you don’t remember much
before age four.
I’ve been watching my boy, age three.
He’ll tear through a day like cheap wrapping paper
and leave you to clean it up.
He can weave through a crowd of legs
right to the front–
grab the last cookie off the plate and laugh.
He’ll look you square in the eye and laugh.
(He who won’t remember this day.)
But so what if he won’t remember age three.
Forgetting is only tragic on our side of four.
Where we do not grow in the night,
Where we write everything down,
so as not to forget.
He writes down nothing.
His small hands and mouth lay open when he sleeps.
Until he crosses over the chasm to our side,
he is invincible.
Why would we want him to remember before age four.
It would be too painful to recall your former glory,
your true age