I Ask You to Remind Me

Webb’s First Deep Field Unveiled from NASA’s James Webb telescope (NIRCam Image)

The sky is black and full of stars. I don’t remember what a sky full of stars looks like, so I ask you to remind me. You tell me to get some paper and a pencil, so I do. I wonder what you’ll say to write.

“Poke holes in it. As many as you can.”

“What? Why?” I ask.

"Just do it,” you say.

I do it.

“Now hold it up to the sun,” you laugh. “And cover one eye.” More laughter. “Did you do it yet?”

I did.

“I’m blind,” I say, “Horrible demonstration,” I tell you I’ll never see again.

I can hear you smile through the phone. You say, “That’s a shame,” because I see things best, and then I remember what a sky full of stars looks like because you reminded me what a sky full of stars feels like.

I know you won’t be coming back. Really, it’s alright. I’m not mad anymore, if I ever was. No, not mad. Something else.

You always said, “You’re so forgetful.” I want to ask you to remind me. You know I’m scared to forget you. You must. I still have that silly piece of paper with all those little holes on my bedside table. It’s been there ever since you called me that day.

I’ll have it framed. That might be nice. I won’t be looking through it again, though. Maybe you saw me cry the last time. I don’t know.

The sky is black and full of stars. I don’t ask you to remind me this time. You wouldn’t hear me all the way up there.