Forgetful

October 2021 | nonfiction

Forgetfulness runs in my family. My brother, the original absent-minded professor, offers me a ride home. “My car’s not far away,” he says, “I’ll be right back to pick you up.” We part outside the Fine Arts building on the campus where he teaches. I wait, and here he comes… and goes, right past me. His car disappears down the street.

Oh well, I think, he’ll remember eventually. And he does. Soon, his car glides up and he rolls the window down. “You’ll think I don’t love you,” he says, “but I came back as soon as I remembered.”

Forgetfulness often involves cars. I have trouble remembering where I park, so I have a system. When I go to a familiar place, I park as close as possible to the same spot each time. When I can’t, I’m grateful that my key has handy buttons that make the horn honk. But in the parking deck today, I wander around my favorite spot, looking for my car. I press the “lock” button until I hear my horn. At least, I think it’s my horn. It does sound a little muffled. I walk on, and the sound recedes. Have I passed my car? I retrace my steps, and it happens again. Finally, I realize I’m on the floor directly above my car, and hear it honking when I pass over it.

I’m not alone. I approach my grocery store entrance and meet a woman coming out. She pauses, looking back and forth, “Now where in the hell did I park my car?” she mutters. Perhaps the fault lies in our cars and not in ourselves.

Water is almost as bad as cars for provoking forgetfulness. After boiling two pans dry, I give up and buy an electric kettle that turns itself off.

I’ve had plumbing-related floods in two homes, so I’m instantly on alert if I hear water running. Today I start a load of laundry, go upstairs, check my email, take out the trash, then happen to walk through the hallway by the bathroom. Then I hear it, the telltale sound of water in the pipes. I wiggle the handle of the commode; it’s not the problem. I run to the basement – no water there – then to the first floor powder room. Mystified, back in the kitchen, I finally remember my laundry. The rinse cycle has started.

I console myself that forgetfulness is common. Else, why would they sell electric kettles? Why would my friend Marlene wear a necklace that says “I Can’t Remember?” I’ve even seen packs of gum labeled Instantly Remember Where You Left your KEYS – intense memory-stimulating mint gum.

Did I mention that forgetfulness runs in my family?

 

Sandy Fry

Sandy Fry is a writer, photographer, traveler, and lifetime art student. Past publications include Minerva Rising, Number One, StoryNews, Dreamers, and an essay in the ‘Your Turn’ column of the AARP Bulletin. Her photographs have appeared in Minerva Rising, Unearthed, Oyster River Pages, and The Longleaf Pine, as well as in the Light Space and Time online gallery.

Tawnya Gibson

October 2021 | visual art

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Tawnya Gibson

Tawnya Gibson is a freelance writer and photographer. Her love of photography started young, with a Kodak Ektralite camera in her youth. She is rarely without a camera in hand, ready to document life as she sees it. Though a trained journalist, she has in recent years changed course, combining her arts education from Utah State University in both writing and photography to tell the story of the intermountain west where she lives and the southwest where she was raised. In her work, she places importance on photojournalism and being able to tell the story of those people and objects who inhabit the earth, both past and present. Her strong use of color and knack for seeing the beauty in the everyday and sometimes forgotten has made her work stand out in local showings. She currently lives and works in the mountains of Utah, but her New Mexican roots still bleed through her work.

dogs from the future

October 2021 | poetry

cattails in a bag, carried home on my back

best eaten in the winter, & we’re ten weeks

from the last frost, & the coming on of weeks

& weeks where vaccinations become

engagement rings, become christmas in spring,

become brushed hair & earrings & dinners

outside where i can see you

 

i can see you now, still, when i close my eyes

& hear your voice through the phone, remembering

how you make me laugh, hanging my feet

out the window, like it wasn’t just a year ago,

eating grapes on the porch steps, putting

crushed beer cans in the mailbox, or

talking grit from the backseat of your car

 

lunaria in a manila envelope & nightshade

from the dumpster; cockscomb in an altoid tin,

& the decision to stay through summer

& the voracious need to start a garden,

& the ache to be outside alone

& the dream to be inside this body

like i am inside this body

 

the dog, pissing on the hardwood doesn’t have a name,

& even if no name comes, there will be tomatoes,

& this summer the only fear i will have

is how i will keep track of all the vegetables

& flowers, seedlings in egg cartons,

tugging at my shoestrings, & what light

will i bury them in

 

all winter, i walked under a murder of crows,

crossing the bridge after work & a week of

single digit weather; when this city spends

over half the year in gray, the crows

taking my breath against the blue sky,

only half knowing the summer will take

the tens of thousands of them away

 

then, when the dog stops barking,

when the crows stop coming,

how will you know

i am almost home

 

Danica Depenhart

Danica Dagenhart is a Pittsburgh-based writer, maker, & educator. they are a recipient of The Alex Rowan Award for poetry writing, & their work has been featured in TriQuarterly and Pretty Owl Poetry. you can find them on Instagram @motherweather.

David Dephy

October 2021 | poetry

Chances

 

We paid the price.

The chances of victory

can be measured

by self-sacrifice—

a miracle out of which

all the chances grow.

 

Without Any Sound

 

Silent afternoon. Silence is more expressive.

I feel something is beaming in my blood. Light.

Some strength inside my nerves wants to be free.

I feel fever. I feel I have a key to every door

in my life. Silent afternoon is telling me,

now—

nobody here, nobody there,

nobody under the sun can give me

either the key or the door to close or open,

except myself. I see now —

nobody ever figures out

or tells me directly what’s life all about.

I will put the gun down, who stands

beside me matters more.

 

David Dephy

David Dephy — A Georgian/American award-winning poet and novelist. The winner of the Finalist Award in the 2020 Best Book Award National Contest by American Book Fest, the finalist and shortlist winner nominee of the Adelaide Literary Awards for the category of Best Poem, the winner of the Spillwords Poetry Award. He is named as A Literature Luminary by Bowery Poetry, The Stellar Poet by Voices of Poetry, The Incomparable Poet by Statorec, The Brilliant Grace by Headline Poetry & Press and An Extremely Unique Poetic Voice by Cultural Daily.

 

Surprise at Dusk

October 2021 | poetry

About one month or two ago,

on the walk we take almost every day,

when passing by a well-known bridge in my city,

I noticed, not without some sorrow,

that there was a family living under it,

at a corner they had cleaned on the riverbank.

I was filed with sadness, for sure they were homeless,

or, at least, temporarily, having as roof

the lower part of that framework.

Yesterday, while walking with my wife, we perceived

that there was something different, a few more people,

in addition to the family we were used to seeing.

A couple of bonfires lit better the area,

they talked and were very comfortable,

laughing and happy, it seems we even heard

something like a clink of glasses.

My wife was surprised and did not understand,

but, suddenly, I did, and told her:

there is no doubt, they are having guests today

and are having fun.

Then, we became aware that, really, since a while,

we have not enjoyed much the same this pleasure.

 

Edilson Afonso Ferreira

Mr. Ferreira, 78 years, is a Brazilian poet who writes in English rather than in Portuguese. Widely published in international literary journals, he began writing at age 67, after his retirement as a bank employee. Has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize, and his book Lonely Sailor, One Hundred Poems, was launched in London, in November of 2018. He is always updating his works at www.edilsonmeloferreira.com.