by Isobel Sheene

I’ve lost it.
(I have it)
I don’t know where it has gone.
At least I know I’ve lost it,
Maybe that means I can find it again
Before it’s too late.
(And it will be soon)

He searches his mind
For where he put it.
(With the pictures of his daughter as a child)
Safely away somewhere,
For all eternity,
(Or apparently not)
But it has been stolen. (by me)

I need to find it,
And soon.
How could I forget?
(Because I made you)
It was our day,
Special for both of us.
(It’s a lovely memory)

He wakes early,
Finds the photo album,
And looks through.
(Trying to jog his memory)
He can’t remember
Any of them being taken.
(Because I stole the memory away)

I remember the joy,
The feeling of ecstasy
(About what? Two words?)
I remember her face,
Young and beautiful,
As she still is to me.
(But nothing else is there)

He looks down on her
Sleeping, peaceful.
(Ahh. I’ll get her next)
Realising the age
Showing in her face,
Sixty years is a long time.
(And now you can’t remember them)

I haven’t told her yet.
(Can you remember her name?)
She would kill me,
And it would kill her,
As it is killing me.
(As I am killing you)
I don’t want us to die yet.

He forgets more and more
(Forgets that he’s forgotten)
Confined to a chair
She cares for him now.
(He barely recognises her face)
She cries at night
Begging him to remember. (Never)

He passes away,
With nothing more than a face.
(Hers, I could not take it)
No name anywhere,
Or other memories.
(I took the one of his daughter)
But they still loved him.