I Forget the Unforgettable
by Diane Elayne Dees
On a still, humid night in late July,
I forget to go out with my flashlight.
All day long, I looked forward
to the moment when I could see it —
the slow explosion, a ghostly glow —
seven night-blooming cereus blossoms,
opening together after weeks
of bobbing pendulously from thick straps
of leaves. Giant lunar specimens, spilling
primrose perfume into my garden. No matter
how many times I see it, the show startles me,
like a recording from my childhood
suddenly breathed into life by musicians
on a concert stage. Or a poem taught in school,
now read aloud by a favorite actor. If you go
outside early, you can watch them unfold.
By morning, they are spent, and lie on the ground
like overcooked white gourds. I find them there
on that July morning, piteous symbols of my
impaired memory. I yank them from the mother
plant and angrily toss them into the woods.
Heartbroken, I hold back tears, wipe my
hands, and hurry in to see if the kitten has grown.