five
Memories.
Everyone takes them for granted. You see something, you remember, you retell. It's like a cycle. But what happens when you see something and you can't remember? That is the question.
I can remember. I can remember how my mother and I used to live, taking each day as it was thrown at us, never having a plan. I remember the way he made me feel, and how his mouth only spoke true words. I remember, I do, but I do not.
The doctor is trying. Apparently, she has told me what happened several times, but each time I have forgotten. Maybe because I wanted to. Maybe because I have problems.
They've given up on me now. Take the pills, don't get addicted, try and remember. Every appointment is the same. Take the pills, don't get addicted, try and remember.
My mother sits straight. She loves me and watches over me, but it has been years. I should have recovered. I should be fine.
"You're fine," she would always say. She still does.
You're fine because you can be. You're fine because you're beautiful. You're fine because you're alive.
But I'm not.
