Forgetting

I forgot to eat breakfast today.  It's not that I don't like breakfast or eating or whatever.  I just simply forgot.  I forgot to feed the dog on my way out of the house as well. I wonder if that banana forgot about me.  Or if my dog's forgetting what I sound like.

My grandma is starting to forget what grand kid I am.  We visited her today.  It was sweet to see her smile but depressing to see her so flustered with herself that she couldn't remember if my name is Mathew, Sophie, or Karren and if I am married with two kids or at BYU.  She doesn't remember which kid she brought to the Mariners game and which kid had to stay home.  Which kid called her on her birthday and which kid is grieving. 

It's like we all are in the same category.  Same order.  Same genre.  Same expectation.  But I don't want to be just a grand child to her.
                                   Or some classmate or student to you.  I don't want to be just some friend.
                     Some sister. 
                                           Some daughter.
                                                                        Some wife. 
                                                                                            Some mother to a child.

I want to be somebody.  I want to leave a mark in your life, in her life, in his life, and even the kid that sits in front of me in STATS class's life. 

I want to be remembered. Like my father is.   Like Michael Jordan is.  Like the sand man is when you wake up and scratch your eyes.  Like sin is when a tear drops from their mama's eyes.  Like our childhood hero's are remembered. 

I still remember the sound of his church shoes hitting the hardwood floors after a days worth of working.  I still remember the tears that filled my brothers' eyes when we waited outside of the hospital room.  I still remember the smell of his colon, but only because Mom couldn't stand having it around and gave it to my brother.  So now he smells like him.  I still remember tossing and turning every night because all I could hear was Dad, pounding the keyboard with his two index fingers. 

Still working.  Man, kemo couldn't slow him down.  So why would death slow him down? 

Forgetting will slow me down.