Remembering
My doctor tells me I can’t remember what happened because I have retrograde amnesia.
***
A man next door is watering the plants. He has an old-fashioned metallic watering can. His face is a blurry muddle of squares. Like every other face. Before returning home, he raises his arm and waves at me. I return his wave but I can’t remember if I know him.
***
Today, I will try to remember, I say. My voice sounds hollow and cold like it has traveled from my past.
***
A watering can is watching over the potted plants. I am fascinated by its bruised metallic body and fish out my binoculars to spot every dent and bump on it. As dusk sweeps in, I wave goodbye to the brooding watering can.
***
I remember something. In my sleep, images are delivered in the form of a telegram. Masked face--curlicues of blood--an ancient house with a courtyard-- winding stairs--sprawling corridors. But when I open my eyes, my mind turns into a billowing mist and the fragments are swept away into some inaccessible nether regions.
***
It rains heavily. I stare at the empty garden that is fast filling with puddles.
***
One night I perch in front of the mirror, part my hair, and gaze at the bruise on my head. It is a long white slit, the color of mother of pearl. I can’t remember if they found out who did it and what they used.
***
A man next door is tending to the plants, trimming them, clipping them. He looks up at me and flashes a smile. My heart lurches; I can see his sexy smile clearly, his face no longer blurry. My breathing increases. It is like my body remembers something, but before I can grasp it I see the mist approaching from far, its voluminous cloak trailing behind it.
***
Memories for me are tricky and slippery like an eel, and I wonder how I can trap them.
***
A man next door is cleaning his watering can. I can’t remember why but I invite him for dinner. Wine and conversations flow. It's like we aren't strangers. I reach to turn off my bedside lamp when my hand misses, and the lamp topples. In the dark, I fumble. I find an envelope. There are photos of me and the man next door. In an intimate embrace.
We are not strangers; we never were. I stare at the photos. I spot a metallic watering can in the background; it looks new and undamaged. A turnkey in my memory. A wisp of remembering settles on me. I know. I know. I know. I want to call my mother or someone but I am enveloped by a blinding sunrise in my head. My eyelids are heavy and unyielding. My hands feel the scar on my head while a metallic smell fills my nostrils.
The end
