Forgetting is Easy

Forgetting is easy. I no longer remember her name, or remember how her eyelids crinkled when she laughed. I do not remember those times down by the river when the days flowed by so easily. I do not recall the times when we told each other of our lives and how they had no direction or purpose until we found each other down by that river. Until then, we had drifted around the world. Now we sat on the bank watching the river, telling each other that we would stay together like two streams meeting, merging and flowing on as a river down to the eternal sea.

I think there may have been a day when we even believed it, but now I can’t remember.

There were days too when we would take the car and drive the roads that shadowed the river until we met the sea. We would stand there, hand in hand, as the night came. We would watch the sunset together, before driving back to the small cottage by the river where we lay entwined together through the night.

All of that is easy to forget.

Even now, each day, as I walk these empty rooms of the cottage, I do not think of her and where she has gone. I do not worry that I will never see her again. I hardly even remember her now, not even when I still see her haunting my empty life like a ghost.

I do not think of her at all, as I sit at the piano in a room that still seems so empty without her sitting in her seat by the window, sketching the birds and the flowers in our garden.

I do not think of her at all when I write the songs about love and loss and leaving, which seem to come so easily to me now.

I do not walk these twisting country lanes around the cottage and down to the village without her. I do not always walk alone, but still feel her by my side with every step, my ear cocked for the sound of her laughter.

There are so many things I do not remember about her, even on those odd times. I never think of her, even after so long, when I still occasionally find one of those long curly red hairs that turn up around the house from time to time. I never think about her when I see all the little curios: the odd pebbles, interesting shells, bits of driftwood and suchlike that she picked up on our walks across the beach.

I do not think of her each time the phone rings, or when a new text or email arrives. I do not even think about her when I see another royalty payment in my bank account from all the songs I wrote when I was not thinking about her and how she left me behind.

It is easy to forget someone like her. It is not hard to go for days without thinking of her at all, even when one of those songs I wrote about her comes on the radio. Even the song that keeps mentioning her name in each chorus does not make me remember her.

Yes, it is so easy to forget.


Published by David Hadley

A Bloke. Occasionally points at ducks.

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