Phase 8

You had seen better days, that was for sure–nose bent, eyes bore bruises and you had forgotten how to smile. Wrinkled hands clasped a wrinkled heart as faded eyes gave your face a sickly presence. I asked your faded eyes again, “Remember? Don’t you remember?” Remember the good memories…at our favorite place to be, the beach? Two parts hydrogen and one-part oxygen splashing at our feet; the sandy ground dragging you down and the full, saccharine moon bringing you back up. Titanium dioxide was slathered like white paint on a dry canvas, muting orange freckles. You: a father; me: a daughter, and mother. The reverberates of jaded shorebirds snuck into the night, the winds carrying the wails to the sky’s cloudy mist, cloudy mist to the moon, and the moon sang to all of us–goodnight.

Do you remember…the stars? A plethora of glitter sprinkled casually, but with purpose, over the sky, and I wished for you to be fascinated by the stars again just once. I was never one for astrology. That was all you. When the three of us, one family, would lay in our backyard castle of wooden planks and stare at the stars. You would teach us the constellations in hopes that I would one day remember them. And I did, because years later you pointed out the Big Dipper when we went on a family picnic to the beach to watch the sun kiss the ocean. Only it wasn’t the Big Dipper. It was Canis Major, but I didn’t correct you. No, I couldn’t.

How do you make somebody remember?

With each word you spoke, you bid farewell to the past, and I willed that for one moment you could find the right key to the right door.

Phase 7

But you did not remember. Because you slashed at the family pictures on the wall, rebuking at the top of your lungs, who are these people! while wearing your favorite purple shirt with the parrots on it all crumpled from your fists, bearing wrinkles of frustration. Tears ran down the ready-made rivers of your face, tears of anger and frustration, they were insoluble tears of enigmas. Sinking down to the floor, I didn’t know what to do. You read yourself, all 55 years of yourself, our favorite bedtime story that night, voice crackly and strange as if reading it for the first time. Because you did not remember. I asked you as I always did, “Remember to tell the moon goodnight?”

And you left silently. Confused and scared.

You might not remember, but I do. One day, years ago, there was no moon in sight. Now, I realize that perhaps it was hidden by the pillows of the sky, perhaps it had gone to sleep as well. Then, I thought somebody had stolen my moon from the sky, nabbed it right from the air, refused to give it back, and simply ran away tip-toeing across the midnight blankets that tucked the sky to bed. The clouds fought the final breaths of the night as the candles of the sky slowly blew out one by one, but the ethereal shadow of the moon remained.

“The moon is always there. For me and for you. The shape will change, it will hide, and some days it will beam wide. But the moon, it is always going to be the moon,” you said as you smiled. For me, the moon was not just a “natural satellite of the earth, visible (chiefly at night) by reflected light from the sun.” The moon encapsulated childhood, love, loss, and meaning. It represented quantities, I love you to the moon and back. A nightlight I could never turn off. Above all, it was something I would always remember. I could forget an embarrassing moment in fourth grade, some subpar report card in fifth grade. But the moon, I could not forget.

When something shines bold and proud, when stories, songs, rhythms, and rhymes are written about it, I will never forget to remember.

Phase 6

I remember the first time you forgot to remember. I was visiting home from college and I waited in that airport terminal an hour and a half for you, stories of college professors and difficult assignments grinding against the jail bars of my teeth just waiting to be set free. Standing still amongst a flurry of hugs and kisses and neon signs and laughter, as time scampered past me, I waited. I waited until something washed over that wait, turning it into worry. Yellow cabs sped by and I managed to hail one down, suitcase rolling bumpily behind me. Arriving at the familiar grey house, I saw roses planted neatly on the front of the lawn. You promised to plant those, Mother’s favorite flowers, each spring and I saw that you had. The corners of my mouth quirked up. You were going to be okay. But I think now if I looked a little closer, I would see crimson red fighting a losing battle against grey.

There was a bounce in my step as I sped up to the doorway, ringing the faded doorbell in anticipation. I heard the echo of a familiar chime bounce around in the familiar house, finding a home in your ears. You peeked out the curtains in the window; your eyes squinted in confusion for a bit, and then you drew back. My anticipation swirled into excitement as I expected you to open the door, but no. I stood on the porch, feet stuck as two blocks of confusion. My eyes blinked, once, twice, and I read everything over again–the address, texts, everything–to make sure I was in the right place at the right time. And I was.

I don’t know what happened, but five minutes, 300 seconds later, you opened the door. Somehow you remembered again–you didn’t look the same. More wrinkles, and more shaky steps. More mixing of colored and white laundry. More realization that life was slipping from your grasp, but less memory of everything. 

Phase 5

Or maybe it was when you took in a breath and never let it out that you forgot to remember. When we all dressed in black and you carved that stone and engraved her name for her, tears making the job easier by eroding away the marble. Your eyes flickered like the wispy color of the wind, shadows of mother’s, and your now-graying hair matted greasily in the sparkling sun of summer. Lips were thin, chapped, pursed in, and wrinkles down-turned your mouth into a permanent frown. Your aged hands put overdue bills screaming with blood-like ink in the trash can, visible under the stained-glass windows of fast food bags made translucent with grease. Sheer elegance.

Phase 4

It wasn’t always forgetfulness all the time. Sometimes it was little victories in the fight against your memories that we celebrated with you buying my favorite Rocky Road ice cream and Cherry Cola by yourself, making cherry chocolate floats and clinking glasses together, cheers to a new beginning! We made towers of brown butter financiers with our own celebratory twist; we filled them with birthday sprinkles and slathered them with dollar store tubs of vanilla frosting, ruining the perfect French savoir-faire of it all. Or when we reminisced about my childhood, my tween years where I refused to let you braid my hair because it looked too embarrassing. We talked about the tween years when I flipped out Uno Reverse cards to anyone who tried to insult me, when layers of t-shirts and tanks, all questionable fashion choices, were cool but dads telling the moon goodnight weren’t. The small victories were plentiful, enough to give me hope. I should’ve realized that small victories don’t win the war.

Phase 3

So what does?

I’ll ask you one last question; do you remember what sunsets look like? A huge copper daystar coaxed down by the lullaby of waves, leaving streaks of stewed apples and amaryllis tinted with a dull auburn; sunsets start everything. Sunsets mark that sliver of time when it’s not morning yet, nor deep night either, but there’s still enough hours until midnight to do something crazy. To check that last box off the summer bucket list.

Do you remember the happy times? How to tell the moon goodnight? But I know the answer as I look in your eyes. 

Phase 2

You told me once a man no longer knows anything anymore if he has faded eyes. 

I sit by your pasty white bed with blue diamond sheets and lukewarm towels smelling of cheap detergent. The lady in white puts you in a gown and you smile, muttering something along the lines of being a king in a cape. 

At last. Something took a toll on your eyelids, but you whispered six words to me for the last time before they fluttered shut like creased pieces of peach paper suddenly let go of.

Phase 1

Remember to tell the moon goodnight.