My husband doesn't remember how we met. He doesn't remember his family, our wedding, or our children. He doesn't know my favorite color, cereal, movie, or book. He doesn't know that we built our house together when we were twenty three and just married. He doesn't know how long we spent engraving the staircase or carrying windows or the wind chimes that still tinkle when there's a breeze. When he looks at the black lines on our kitchen wall, he doesn't remember marking them just above our children's heads as they stood as tall as they could, hoping to have grown an inch. The beautiful sound of their young laughter is new to him. There are so many things that he doesn't know—that he loves the color red, and hates Indian food, and wishes he had become a surgeon instead of a nurse. He can't recall all the times we blasted The Smiths in our first apartment and got drunk on tequila. He doesn't remember—but I do. I keep it all in my head, the memories whirling around and around constantly because, if I forget them, my husband no longer exists. I am all that's left of who he was, and I will not let that go.
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Memories
RomanceMy husband doesn't remember how we met. He doesn't remember his family, our wedding, or our children. He doesn't remember-but I do. I keep it all in my head, the memories whirling around and around constantly because, if I forget them, my husband no...
