I forgot the date. I don't know what that means. The month of July befuddles me. I spend the beginning, dreading the end, but then can't remember the actual date of my mom's death. Her murder. Its terrible to forget, but I don't know if its worse to remember. I had to dig. I had to know in that moment that I forgot. I had to make myself remember. I had to pull out the police report and look at the officer's small script, and make myself remember. Once I saw the date, I shoved the report back into the file cabinet. I want to remember, but I don't want to remember everything. There are parts I want to forget. There are parts I never wanted to know. There are parts I still don't know. I forget her voice. I want to hear it in my head. Her laugh, but I can't. We couldn't afford a video camera. I have no way to replay that sound for me. That sound I heard so often, for so many years. The sound that followed me long after she stopped dancing with me to the King and I. She taught me to waltz, to The King and I. The sound that chased me as I rode my toothpaste green Aquafresh bike she won for me in one of her contests. I can't hear it anymore. I try. I try but it won't come back. I can vaguely make out my name on her lips. I can almost hear her call me Samantha. I was never Sam to her. Never, in all my years. I still know her smell. It haunts in the mall, as I pass some woman wearing her perfume. But by the time I catch it, the lady is passed, the smell gone. Its strange how life continues, and how our memories are made to fade. I am sure we are made that way for a reason. Reasons unknown. How depressing. Don't worry too much. I'm sure my blogs will pick up in mood once the 21st passes.
July 21, 2004. The date.