I Don't Remember

I don't remember when I fell for Shaun Cassidy.
Nor do I remember when I got over him.

I don't remember ever wanting to be a teacher, although my mother said I did.

I don't remember our house in New Hampshire very well, but I remember playing in the warm rain the summer before we moved.

I don't remember a time I didn't know how to swim.

I don't remember where I put my favorite sweatshirt, from UC Santa Cruz. I lost it in 1983.

I don't remember what happened to my Nana's white gold watch. It's been gone since I lived with two roommates on Alta Vista Drive.

I don't remember most of my first days of school. I don't remember anything about that first day of kindergarten except not getting picked up. Junior high? Nope. High school? Nope.

Not even my first day teaching in Japan, or my first day at LCJH, where I teach now.

All gone.

I don't remember when I realized that typing was quicker and easier than writing things out.

I usually don't remember where I put my glasses, or the remote, or my keys, or the scissors.

I don't remember where any of my grandparents were born. I don't remember my grandfather's death.

I don't remember when I stopped wanting to be a ballerina, or an Olympic swimmer, but I became neither.

I don't remember when I became a good cook.

I don't remember the names of most of my students, once they graduate. I wish I could. I know their faces when I see them, but the names have just left the building of my brain.

I don't remember how to write in Japanese.

I don't remember much of what I learned in college.

I don't remember to hold my tongue most of the time, but I'm working on it.