Three Years

He asked me if I'd kept

my promise. Three years swept

by. He remembered. I was caught

in something like shame. He'd sought

to hold the thing I said

I'd teach him. I'd instead

forgotten completely.

His face didn't fall, just

settled into something. I must

have looked confused. He described

it anyway—the thing, prescribed

exactly as I'd said it,

like he'd rehearsed and weighed it

in his head every day.

I wanted to say I'd make

it right, I'd teach him. Take

back the promise I'd forgotten.

But I could see he'd gotten

something else entirely—

understanding, clearly,

that I was someone who says

things and then forgets. Always.

And that's what I taught him.

Not how to make the thing.

But how to let go

of what people bring

you as promises, how to know

that words disappear when

people aren't looking at you.