Part One
I am not going to think about the day I called you on the phone for the millionth time and you said you didn't recognize my voice.
I am not going to think about the time you accused me of doing this, not that, when really I did that, not this. And how could you not know?
I am not going to think about that day you stood weeping by the door, hugging him goodbye, and then afterwards, after he had gone, telling me you only did this because it made him feel better to see you like that.
I am not going to think about all the times you worried about me because you were older and you knew to be young was to be foolish. Because I was younger and I knew to be old was to be outrageously cautious about the most everyday things, like driving in the rain.
I am not going to think about all the times we walked to the movies together, wept and watched together, watched and laughed together and then walked and talked together all the way home.
I am not going to think about all the nights before Christmas you stayed up all night knitting or sewing something for me that I could open on Christmas day, perchance to wear.
I am not going to think about all the green bean seed pods we planted one spring and then when they started to grow up through the soil pushed down again because we thought they were mistaken.
I am not going to think about how many times I think about telling you something even though you are no longer here, or there, or even over that way.
I am not going to think about how often you were right.
I am not going to think about how you loved me so much I could hardly breathe.
Part Two
I am not going to think about how often you squeezed my knee and made it tickle like one's funny bone.
I am not going to think about how often we had breakfast together in silence and it was enough.
I am not going to think about how many people used to say I looked just like you.
I am not going to think about how I could always make you laugh.
I am not going to think about how you went from being the strongest handsomest man on earth to someone frailer, shorter, weaker, stranger who eventually just floated out of this life like a piece of candy wrapper born on the wind.
I am not going to think about all the times I thought about your life before the three of us and wallowed in its tragic twists and turns and remarked on your innate ability to escape fate's clutches.
I am not going to think about how much you loved to drink your scotch and how one night you opened the screen door to let the dog out and then forgot to close it and fell asleep illuminated only by the flickering lights of the TV and how when we found you you were sitting in your chair, head down, surrounded by hovering moths, fluttering crane flies and pulsating fireflies.
I am not going to think about how often I said "you told me already" when you became forgetful and told me something over and over.
I am not going to think about how I didn't say I love you out loud those last slow hours you were dying in the hospital because I thought you could hear me thinking those words. I thought you could read my mind even as you slept.
I am not going to think about it. I am not going to think about it. I am not going to think about it.
