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She bumps her head. She selects her memories.

She chooses to forget his crooked mouth.

He taught her how to whistle. She no longer remembers how his mouth mockingly smiled at her about being an adult non-whistler. She no longer remembers thinking how film noir it was for him to tell her to just pucker her lips and blow. She no longer remembers a care free, he-loves-me day requiring a good whistle. She forgets to whistle. She forgets his mouth.

Bit by bit, she forgets him…the astronomy connecting his brown back freckles, the sticky sweet of his morning smell, and the secret story of the scar on his right hand.

And, in the blank spaces of her mind, she plants red poppies and forget-me-nots.

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