You say, “Tell me you remember.”

      But that would be a most grievous lie.

            So I say nothing.

You say, “I don’t understand!”

      But you could never be remembered.

            So I say nothing.

You say, “But I remember you!”

      But that’s obvious – I remember me occasionally, too.

            So I say nothing.

You say, “How could you?”

      But it was inevitable that this would happen.

            So I say nothing.

You say, “Don’t you have anything to say to me?”

      But don’t you see?

      To remember something – someone – implies they must first be… not forgotten, not necessarily, but put in the back of one’s mind, no longer in the forefront. Like with a telephone number, one only has to think of the thing to pull it from the dredges.

      A remembered memory is an old winter coat recovered from the attic, from its lonely months – spring, summer; fall – alone. Dust it off, smooth out the wrinkles – good as new!

      Springtime returns.

      Goodbye.

      You, however,… You are not someone to be folded up and neatly packed away in the back of someone’s mind – not mine, by any means.

      And you are certainly not one to be erased, either.

      You could never be forgotten, not you, not by me.

            So I say, “I will never remember you.”

                  Then I watch you walk away.