Our Song

I am getting good at forgetting you.
I have learned to collect all of the scrambling memories I have of you,
Running around like fluffy little chicks.
I scoop them up quickly, stick them in a box and close the lid that throbs like a new bruise.

But every once in a while, a little yellow memory escapes
And sneaks its oily way into my conscience,
Interrupting a once placid moment.

Once, I was in the grocery store--
Way in the grocery store--
Far from any exit and easy escape,
When I heard the old familiar notes of our song beginning to play on my rustiest heartstring.

As I stood in the cereal aisle with Chex in one hand, Cheerios in the other,
I flooded with poultry of what these words once were to me, to us.
I recalled the time shopping for towels that our tune played
And you wordlessly pulled me in to sway right there
Among the Egyptian cotton and terrycloth.

How I cherished that moment then.
How I am haunted by it now.
The lyrics, now so laden with meaning,
Laughing in my face with irony,
Make me want to tear open the boxes in my hands
And watch the breakfast roll down the manilla tiles of aisle seven.

A life that we once swore was better together
Is distant. Foreign. Foggy.

I soon realize that I have been deciding for five minutes.
I scoop up the chick, tuck it back inside its box
And put the cereal back on the shelf.
I exit the store leaving my appetite and the memory on the shelf.