Some Days I Forget

Where is my phone? I ask myself

At least twice a day.

Before I broke down and bought

Turquoise eyeglasses, I wandered from room to room

In search of my reading glasses.

Cheaters, I called them. They were invariably perched

on the top of my head.

Some days I forget words, birthdays, and anniversaries.

I sip my cappuccino wincing at the bitterness.

No vanilla sweetener.

Some days I forget piles of sheets in the washing machine, clumped together, discovering them days later, rancid smelling, needing another wash, rinse, and spin. Then the process repeats itself.

I forget to weed the flower garden, check the mailbox, and water the topiary trees on the front porch.

Some days I forget to schedule Cooper for a groom, only remembering when his wiry coat is thick and matted.

I forget to eat lunch.

Some days I forget to say please and thank you.

I forget to say no.

And some days…some days…I forget I had cancer.