Memory
Last night, my daughter instructed me
To make a very fucking secret preparation
In the early fucking morning,
Just as soon as I woke up:
Boil some fucking water
Put some fucking vanilla in
And stir that shit, etc.
She told me not to tell a fucking soul.
(Now, again: This is artistic fucking license;
She doesn't really fucking talk like that.
Not yet.)
But I fucking forgot:
I woke up,
Had some fucking coffee,
And started exercising
While watching this fucking documentary
On Joan fucking Rivers
That I'd been meaning to fucking watch
For about a fucking week.
A few hours later,
When she's eating fucking breakfast
She fucking looks at me and says,
"Daddy..."
And I'm like "What?
Did I fucking forget something? What?"
(Again, AF fucking L, okay?)
And then I fucking remembered,
And I was like, "Oh shit!
Jesus, I'm really fucking sorry."
I felt really fucking bad
It was very fucking important to her
And she was very fucking upset
That I fucking forgot.
But then I thought of something
That I thought might make her feel
A little fucking better.
I told her,
"You know, when I woke up this morning,
I forgot what day it is today."
Which was fucking true:
I didn't fucking remember what day it was
Until New York fucking One reminded me
Two and a half fucking hours
After I fucking woke up.
Is that fucked up or what?
I asked her
If she fucking knew
What fucking day it was.
She said, "9/11."
We talked about it a little fucking bit
Not too much--she's not even fucking 8.
But now I'm sitting here wondering
Something I didn't fucking ask her:
Whether the preparation was meant to be
Some kind of fucking ritual or something.
And I'm also trying to remember
How fucking old I was
before I fucking knew
What fucking day in December
Pearl Harbor was.
9/11/2014
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