The Last Thing I Tried to Remember

April 11, 2001

There was a time when writing poetry felt easy, when my voice still had a kind of freshness to it. That’s the word that comes closest—fresh.

On warm summer afternoons, even the softest breeze could hold my attention. I would sit there, letting it inspire me, turning the smallest sensations into words. I remember the pond, the ducks calling out while children tossed them bits of bread, their parents finally giving in to a break from chores.

Back then, ideas came naturally. I could take whatever I saw, smelled, or heard and shape it into something meaningful. The scent of barbecues drifting through the air—grilled meat, sweet peppers, tomatoes—mixed with the earthy smell of pine and heather. Music echoed from every corner of town, and people filled the streets in bright, sometimes questionable outfits. It was all so vivid, almost overwhelming in the best way.

The warmth of the sun on my neck made me feel more alive than any medication ever did. And then there were the apples from my orchard—crisp, sweet, with just the right bite to them. Perfect for pies. It’s been a long time since I made one. Maybe I’ll ask Val to help me.

April 14, 2001

I was in the garden today and remembered something I wanted to write down for Val… but then it slipped away.

Now I keep thinking about that summer we went camping by Loch Lomond, when we traveled north to reconnect with where we came from. My mother, Daisy, was still with us then, and so was Mary—my Mary. Val was just a little girl, happy with the simplest things. We didn’t have much to give her, but we gave her our time.

Each morning, she’d sit patiently while Mary tied her hair into pigtails, and my mother would chatter on, telling her stories. There was one about a rabbit… no tail? Or was it two tails? I can’t quite remember. I wonder if Val does.

April 14, 2002

I was in the garden today and remembered something I wanted to write down for Val.

She tells me I already wrote that.

May 29, 200—

I woke up with surprising energy today. I cleared some weeds in the garden and went to the shop to buy bread. Turns out, I already had two loaves at home. Still, I can take them to the pond later.

I started writing this for a reason. I know I did. Something about remembering… or keeping something safe. But it’s getting harder now. It feels like a thick fog is settling in my mind, covering my memories.

It hasn’t fully taken hold yet, but I can tell it’s getting worse. Faster than the doctors said it would.

July —, 2001 or 2002

I ate an apple today. Someone came to visit. I think Val was upset because I spilled my coffee, though they said I was fine. They always say that.

I forget things more often now. It reminds me of what happened to my mother.

The pond was too loud today. Too many ducks… or too many children.

Autumn, 2002

My daughter—she is my daughter, I think—hasn’t visited. Or maybe she has, and I just don’t remember. She left me a note. I’m sure she did.

I think I’ve seen her.

October 2nd, I think

Val came to visit. Or she was going to. I meant to write something down for her—something important.

I wrote it.

But now I can’t read it.

Tuesday

I went to the pond today. Yes, I did. There were birds. Maybe ducks. I’m not sure.

There was something I needed to remember. For someone.

I wrote it down.

But I can’t find the note.

December 1—

I remember.