What should I forget, Liz? Should I forget
that you prefer to cook your oatmeal into a dry paste, or
should I forget the way that Jake lets you carry him,
your arms wrapped around his belly, so it looks like the dog can fly?
Should I forget the day I first met you, when I walked around Wascana Lake,
my eyes closed, thinking I was Stephen, stepping on Sandymount seashells,
and you said, that any boy who would do that was clearly the boy for you?
Should I forget your baby cousins, whom I changed and dressed on New Years,
and, afterward, your Uncle Shawn kissed us both on the crowns of our heads,
or should I forget Canasta, played ruthlessly, the way James Bond played it,
or Budgen, your stuffed octopus, or that I still keep Dramamine
hidden in my car, because I know that you get car sick?
Should I try to forget that your dad won't drink Gin and Tonic from a coffee mug,
or that your brother thought I was a rare book collector, because
of the way I held your family's first edition Pomes Penyeach,
or that Simon wanted only to see the airplanes in Germany,
and wouldn't let you spend time with the Gutenberg Bible?
Should I forget that you read that Rimbaud biography and felt frustrated,
he having read so much in so little time, or that you worry too much about your own talents,
or, maybe, that you collect the poems that poets write about other poets?
Should I forget your stories of boarding school, your long, straight bangs that covered your eyes,
or the girl that you watched eat the mercury, or the chess tournament in highschool,
when you touched your pawn, a moment of thoughtlessness more than anything,
and, feeling honour-bound, you moved it, knowing it would lose you the match.
Should I forget even that Lizzie was the pet name I gave you,
long before anyone had ever called you by that name, and that your family still dislikes it,
except for your grandpa, because his mother was named Lizzie too?