The Note I Cannot Read

April 11th, 2001

I remember when poetry was young, and my voice was... fresh. I think that's the word. Fresh.

A gentle summer's breeze would captivate and hold my attention as I wrought its legacy on a lazy Tuesday afternoon. I recall with glee the sound of ducks at the pond quacking for scraps of breadcrumbs from the children who had harassed their parents to leave the gardening for a few hours.

I could reach into the corners of my mind and create a passage from what aroused my senses. The scent of barbeques with grilled juicy meats and sweet tomatoes and peppers, pine and heather, soundtracked by sound systems blaring all over the town. Then there was the sight of the colourful clothes people were wearing set against their tasteful and oftentimes distasteful displays of flesh. It was a feast for the eyes.

The warmth on the back of my neck would make me feel alive in ways the pills I had been given never could. Then there were the apples from my orchard. Delicious. Crisp and sweet with a sharpness—sharpness that… well, you know. Perfect for pies. It's been a long time since I made a pie. I might ask Val to supervise me.

April 14th, 2001

I was out in the garden today and remembered something that I wanted to jot down for Val. But then forgot it. Now all I can think about is the time we went camping one summer by Loch Lomond when we made the trip north to get in touch with our roots. Daisy, my Mother, was still alive, as was Mary, the love of my life. Val was a little girl who found joy in the simplest of things. We never had much to give her, besides time. She would sit each morning and let Mary put her hair in pigtails while my mother rambled about this and that or one of her funny tales.

The tale of the rabbit with no tail was a humdinger. Or was it the tale of the rabbit with two tails? I wonder if Val remembers.

April 14th, 2002

I was out in the garden today and remembered something that I wanted to jot down for Val. Val says I already wrote this.

May 29th, 200?

I started today with a surprising amount of energy, and sorted some weeds in the garden, and then went down to the local shop to buy some bread. Annoyingly, I already had two unopened loaves. Never mind. I can take them to the duck path later.

I started this for a reason. I know I did. Something about remembering. Or keeping. Keeping something. But it's getting harder. There is a strong mist blowing across myxbrain, shrouding my memories in darkness.

Though it hasn’t quite—what’s the word—got its grip yet, I fear it is progressing more aggressively than the… fuck. The medics said.

July -, 2002 or 2001

I had an apple today, and they came over to visit. I think Val might be upset because I spilled my coffee. They said I was fine, but they say that a lot.

I forget things. More now. I think more now. I think. It happened to Daisy. Mother.

The duck pond was too noisy today. Too many ducks feeding the children.

Autumn, 2002

My daughter—I think she is my daughter—has not been visiting me. Or she has, and I don’t remember. She wrote me a note. I have the note. I think I have the note. Remember seeing her.

October, 2nd, I think

Val came to visit. I think she did. She said she would. I said I would write down something I needed to remember to tell her.

I wrote her a note.

I cannot read the note.

Tuesday

I went to the pond today. I think I did. Yes I did. There were birds. No ducks. Or maybe ducks.

I know I was meant to remember something.

For someone.

I wrote it down.

I can't find the note.

December 1-

I remember.