She just forgot to remember

The Boston Herald

Beverly Beckham

I went to find it the other day and it was gone. Where did it go and when?

Every other time I've reached for it, it has been there. It's just a tacky, little poem I memorized in high school. But it lived in my head my whole life. And now it has vanished, leaving behind a sole stanza: "Lonely as an island/ blue as the sea/ nothing to live for/ that's me."

There were at least five stanzas, maybe six. I had the poem taped to my bedroom mirror for four years. I read it every day. It was as familiar as a prayer.

And now it's nowhere. Like the Acts of Faith, Hope and Love I said every day in seventh and eighth grade: "Oh my God, I..."

I what...?

Like the Five Glorious Mysteries I heard over the intercom twice a week for six years. I remember the Resurrection and the Ascension. But what were the other three?

Like a million everyday words - names of people, places and things - that seem to get stuck behind steel walls at the exact second you need them.

"I'd like you to meet my good friend, er, ummm..."

"Where did we have dinner? You want to know where we had dinner? I've been there a hundred times. What is the name of that place?"

"Could you pass me the, uhmm ...Yes. Yes. The pepper. That's what I want."

The phone rang just now and I answered it. A woman identified herself and said, "You probably don't remember me."

How did she know? Who told her I can't remember anything?

"I talked to you last month," she continued. And then, thank God, repeated what we talked about.

"Where am I taking you Thursday?" I asked my 16-year-old one Wednesday morning.

"Mom, I've told you a hundred times. To the Kennedy Library."

"And you have to be there at 3:15, right?" I said, certain, at least, of the time.

"No, Mom. I have to be there at 3:45. What is wrong with you? Why can't you remember?"

Why can't I remember?

Once I forgot to pick up my then 12-year-old at dancing school. The phone rang at 9:45 p.m. I was in bed reading a book.

"Hello," a young voice said.

"Who is this?" I asked.

"It's your daughter, Mom. Remember me? Lauren.. Your middle child."

"Where are you?" I said, thinking she was in her room, playing a trick on me.

"I'm at dancing school. You forgot to pick me up."

I forgot her younger sister once when she was visiting a friend. I'd called her and told her to wait outside for me. I was on my way to Staples and she had wanted to come.

There she was standing in the driveway as I drove past. She told me later that she waved and screamed and chased the car. But I didn't even see her or remember her until I was 20 minutes away.

People tell me I'm not paying attention. I have too much on my mind. They say the things I'm forgetting aren't important to me.

But the things I'm forgetting are important, and I am paying attention, and my mind isn't any more crowded than anyone else's.

So what's going on inside my head? I used to think of my brain as a small computer whose memory cells got all used up on dumb things like the words to "The Battle of New Orleans:" "In 1814, we took a little trip/ Along with Colonel Jackson down the mighty Missip.."

If I could purge this unimportant stuff I no longer use, then I could make way for new information. That's what I hoped. But that's not what's happening.

I can't recite the entire "Gettsyburg Address" anymore. I can barely make it through the first few lines of "Evangeline" and "The Midnight Ride of Paul Revere." I've lost almost all the "lonely as an island" poem. I should have a few freed-up brain cells, shouldn't I? So where are they?

"It's all right, Mom," my kids tell me. "Everybody forgets things. Just think about how awful Mrs. G. must have felt when she forgot to pick up her daughter at summer camp. At least you never did that."

"She forgot to pick up her daughter? That's terrible. Did I know about this? "

"Yes, Mom, you knew," my daughters chimed.

I knew. We had talked about this. We'd joked. We'd laughed. That's what my kids told me.

But I forgot.