The Blank

Someone asked what my father did for work.

I opened my mouth and nothing came.

Not fuzzy. Completely gone.

A blank space where years should be.

I called my mother. She told me.

I listened and realized I had no memory

of him in those clothes.

No memory of the job. The routine. The complaints.

She described it. He wore something specific.

A uniform, maybe. Or just work clothes.

I don't know. The image doesn't attach to anything.

It's like learning about a stranger.

This is my father. This is his life

for several years in the nineties.

And I have no record of it.

No internal archive. Nothing.

What else have I forgotten?

What else has just disappeared?

There's a man in work clothes I never knew.

My father. Before I was paying attention.

Before I was old enough to notice

or remember or care.

He was doing something every day.

Going somewhere. Being someone.

And it's just gone. From me.

The memory didn't stick.

Or it was never there to begin with.

Either way, it's not mine to have.