Forgotten

There were times when she would forget about us, but I have no memory of any of these times. Do you?

M. told me we would be waiting there and watching out the top window. We would watch for the red spot we knew would turn into the red pickup and beige camper as it followed the road that wrapped around the mountain that brought her from whatever job or house she was coming from to get us. But she wouldn’t show and all of the red spots we’d see would not turn into her red truck with the beige camper.

Why have I forgotten these times?

I remember so vividly when she didn’t forget to come get us. When the red spot we were watching followed the road that circled the mountain and then turned right by the church with the field where we played softball the one summer that we played softball. It followed that road all the way up toward us where it went under the ski resort and then disappeared in the scrub oak trees that hid her from our view and we wondered if we had been mistaken and if it wasn’t her but some other red spot that would turn off at the street that was hiding in all of those trees, but the red spot did come out of the trees and was still on the road that would bring her to us and now it was close enough for us to see that it was a small red pickup and it did have a beige camper on it and we were confident enough to step away from the window and scramble to put on our coats and stuff our overnight bags which we had resisted packing and run downstairs and out the basement into the long driveway so that when she pulled up she would know–she just had to know–how happy we were to see her.

Do you think she ever knew?

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