Labor Day Weekend.
BBQs, family, friends, trips to the beach or lake.
Not 2023, as I recover from my New Year liver transplant. I am lucky to be alive, although some times I think many people think I died during Christmas. No one calls, then again I don't have much to talk about other than being alive.
I thought about the old quote, "As you get old you forget. As you older you are forgotten."
My family in Boston were no-shows. No calls. My clan in Thailand were resting on the otrher side of the world on a Sunday. My good friend Alice was celebrating her birthday in Scotland with friends. We had spoken yesterday. She was glad I was alive. Me too.
No one else has called my phone. No one has knocked on my door. This afternoon I had taken care of Professor Ollman and smoked cigarette with his loving son Raoul on the balcony overlooking Bleecker Street. Afterwards I went to Staples to print some pamphlets I had written aboutlife and deadfh,. I spoke with the young man making them. Upon my return to Clinton Hill I ran into my young comrades. Brigette and Alex. They were headed to Fort Greene Park to laze on the lawn. I wished them well and proceeded to 387, where I sat in my collapsible beach chair and drank an iced cappacino from Larina, thanks to Erica and Frederico. Flacco the Dominican Homeless came by. I gave him water and $1. He returned the favor with a smile.
Alison from Palm Beach called at seven.
We spoke for fifteen minutes.
It was a full day.
I forget I am not forgotten.
I have people everywhere now, the past and future who think of me as I think of them. Remembering much. Forgetting nothing.
