I forgot your birthday.
Purple flowers from my aunt, and I still didn't know it
until two days later when my wife read me the card
and I recognized the date. Two days later
and I realize that two years later, and I'm soon forgetting
the features of your voice and the warmth of your laugh,
and soon I might only remember your face, and your movements
as one remembers a favorite movie, replaying the same scenes in their head
until they're romanticized, out of proportion.
You've become out of proportion,
and my brother and I couldn't understand
why they all got flowers that weekend,
until two days later,
and there's nowhere to address my card, there's no where
to hide my face in that shame that follows,
because you wouldn't care. You don't care anymore,
because where you are, there's too much happiness
to care for anything like purple flowers
and belated cards from your faithful children.
Strange, too, how knowing that could still be such a comfort.