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If You Forget Me Again

Original Poetry

Translation

If You Forget Me Again

If you forget me again

For 487 days, this house has lived with its mouth closed—

For 487 days, this house has been silent—

as if grief could be kept from spreading by pretending it isn’t there.

as if pretending grief isn't there could stop it from spreading.

For 487 days, you have woken into the same morning,

For 487 days, you have woken up to the same morning,

as though sleep were a door that locks behind you

as if sleep locks you in and the world resets while you blink inside.

and the world resets itself while you stand inside it blinking.

For 487 days, I've asked you—tomorrow. Tomorrow—

For 487 days, I have begged you—tomorrow. Tomorrow—

remember.

Remember them as they were before your mind learned to protect itself.

Remember them the way they were before your mind learned how to save itself.

And if you remember tomorrow, forget what makes you tremble:

And if you remember tomorrow, forget the things that make you shake:

forget the slammed doors.

Forget the loud voices that rise like something waking.

Forget the raised voices that rise like something waking up.

Forget the arguments we disguise as necessity,

Forget the arguments we dress up as necessity,

because some truths are too sharp to handle barehanded.

because some truths are too sharp to hold with bare hands.

Forget the bitterness.

Forget how we spoke because we were young

Forget the way we said things because we were young

and thought there'd always be another day to apologize.

and thought there would always be another day to apologize.

Forget the bad times.

Forget the deal you keep making with the past:

Forget the bargain you keep making with the past:

move on, move on, move on—

as if the past ever agrees.

But most importantly—

if you forget me,

you won't remember the teenager who drove that night.

you won’t remember the teenager who took the wheel that night.

You won't remember the phone ringing,

You won’t remember the phone ringing,

that long, dreadful ringing that made the walls lean in.

that long, awful ringing that made the walls lean closer.

You won't remember the headlights disappearing down the road,

You won’t remember the headlights disappearing down the road,

like light can be stolen cleanly, without a trace.

like light can be stolen cleanly, without leaving a trace.

You won't remember why three photographs are missing

You won’t remember why there are three photographs missing

from the hallway—

not ruined, not burned, not found again—

just absent, as if they never existed.

simply absent, as though they were never meant to exist.

You won't remember the routine you never chose:

You won’t remember the routine you never chose:

every morning at 7:13, you still set four plates on the table.

Like hunger is negotiable.

Like hunger is a thing you can negotiate with.

Like ritual is surgery.

Like ritual can be surgery.

Like if you keep doing it, the empty seat might stop being empty.

Like if you keep doing it, the missing seat might finally stop being empty.

Maybe forgetting is the only mercy we've learned.

Maybe forgetting is the only mercy we’ve learned.

Maybe it's the only way this family survives

Maybe it’s the only way this family survives

without falling apart.

without turning inside out.

Maybe the house—this place, this endless need of it—

Maybe the house—this place, this looping need of it—

feeds on your gentle refusal

feeds on your soft refusal

and calls it peace.

But tomorrow, when you wake up

and ask me where she is—

when your eyes search my face for the right answer

and your voice doesn't quite believe what you're saying—

and your voice doesn’t quite believe what you’re saying—

I'll tell you again.

I’ll tell you again.

And when you forget again,

I'll remember for you.

I’ll remember for you.

Chapter One — The People We Were (Revised)

I like to remember the past.

Not because it was good.

Not because I want it back.

I remember it because I’m afraid one day I won’t recognize the shape of you—

I remember it because I'm afraid one day I won't recognize the shape of you—

the people you were before forgetting learned your name.

the people you were before forgetting knew your name.

Before all of this.

Before the empty chair.

Before the photographs began to thin out along the hallway wall—

Before the photographs began to disappear from the hallway wall—

first one, then another, until three were gone like they’d never been printed at all.

first one, then another, until three were gone like they were never printed.

Before every morning turned into an argument with time.

Before every morning became an argument with time.

Now we live inside the remains of yesterday’s aftermath—

Now we live in the remains of yesterday's aftermath—

an endless loop of reaching and failing.

an endless loop of trying and failing.

You wake up.

Your eyes open like they’re searching for something you can’t name.

Your eyes open like they're searching for something you can't name.

Then you ask, careful and polite, as if asking makes it less real.

Where are they?

I tell you.

I say it the way I always do—

not too fast, not too slow, like the wrong timing could break you.

You swallow. You nod. You look relieved for a moment,

like the right words are a bandage and not a knife.

like the right words are a bandage, not a knife.

Then it happens again.

Your face changes before your mind catches up.

A sadness flickers across you—

quick as a shadow, gone before you can call it anything.

quick as a shadow, gone before you can name it.

You tell yourself it’s fine.

You tell yourself it's fine.

You smooth your expression.

You reach for routine.

And I watch you forget.

I used to think that if you forgot about me, the past would finally go quiet.

I thought grief would end when the remembering did.

I thought if you couldn’t name what happened, then maybe I could stop trying to.

I thought if you couldn't name what happened, maybe I could stop trying to.

But guilt doesn’t work like that.

But guilt doesn't work like that.

Guilt remembers.

It remembers in the way your hands don’t quite know what to do with themselves.

It remembers in the way your hands don't know what to do with themselves.

In the way you check the locks twice and call it “habit” like the word can protect you.

In the way you check the locks twice and call it "habit" like the word can protect you.

In the way the kitchen smells like disinfectant even when nothing is dirty.

In the way you avoid the hallway at night

and pretend you just “don’t like the dark.”

and pretend you just "don't like the dark."

Some days I can almost convince myself your forgetting is kindness—

a shield you learned to raise the way some people learn to breathe in water.

a shield you learned to raise like some people learn to breathe underwater.

Other days I wonder if it’s something else.

Other days I wonder if it's something else.

If you’ve been practicing not noticing for so long

If you've been practicing not noticing for so long

that you forgot what you were protecting.

And that’s where it hurts most:

And that's where it hurts most:

I’m the one who helps keep the world steady.

I'm the one who helps keep the world steady.

I am the one who says the correct name.

Who guides you through the day like I’m turning pages in a book

Who guides you through the day like I'm turning pages in a book

you refuse to reread.

I take care of you—

and somehow that makes the guilt heavier.

Because I can’t tell if I’m rescuing you

Because I can't tell if I'm rescuing you

or simply maintaining the cage.

or just maintaining the cage.

I don’t know when you changed.

I don't know when you changed.

Maybe it was slow.

Maybe it was the first time you said, I don’t understand,

Maybe it was the first time you said, I don't understand,

and felt relief instead of panic.

Maybe it was when you realized you could survive

if you stopped looking at the parts of the past that looked back.

You’re sadder now.

You're sadder now.

Even when you smile, it’s careful—

Even when you smile, it's careful—

like you’ve learned to test joy before you trust it.

like you've learned to test joy before you trust it.

Sometimes I wonder if some part of you remembers anyway.

Not the clear kind of remembering that turns into facts.

The other kind.

The kind that sits deep enough you can’t reach it without breaking.

The kind that sits deep enough you can't reach it without breaking.

A part of you that wakes up with dread already in your throat.

A part that knows the shape of absence

even when you can’t name it.

even when you can't name it.

Maybe that’s why you stare at the empty chair.

Maybe that's why you stare at the empty chair.

Maybe that’s why you set four plates at 7:13

Maybe that's why you set four plates at 7:13

as if the fifth person could be called back with proper placement.

As if you could teach the universe manners.

As if hunger is something you can negotiate with—

something you can soothe with routine until it becomes familiar.

Maybe that’s why you never ask about the three missing photographs

Maybe that's why you never ask about the three missing photographs

until you’ve already asked about everything else.

until you've already asked about everything else.

Four hundred and eighty-seven days.

Not years. Not “since it happened.”

Not years. Not "since it happened."

Four hundred and eighty-seven days of self-betrayal—

of careful lies you tell yourselves because the truth is too heavy to carry all day.

Four hundred and eighty-seven days of pain disguised as normal.

Four hundred and eighty-seven days watching you vanish—

not from the room, not from my life,

but from the version of you that could look at what happened

without turning away.

And pretending that forgetting is the same thing as forgiveness.

Sometimes—

when the house is quiet enough,

when the clocks stop sounding like clocks,

when you fall asleep believing tomorrow will be gentler—

I sit beside you and ask a question I’m too afraid to say out loud:

I sit beside you and ask a question I'm too afraid to say out loud:

Which one of us is actually forgetting?

You forget what happened.

I forget who I was before it did.

Maybe that’s what grief really is.

Maybe that's what grief really is.

Not the remembering of the dead—

but the slow disappearance of the person you were

when the living could still be trusted.

Explanation

The poem 'If You Forget Me Again' explores the themes of memory, grief, and the struggle to cope with loss. It opens with the speaker reflecting on 487 days of living in a house that feels closed off, as if grief can be contained by ignoring it. The repetition of '487 days' emphasizes the monotony and enduring nature of their pain. The speaker pleads for the listener to remember the past, but only the good parts, urging them to forget the arguments and bitterness that have accumulated.

The poem is rich with imagery, such as 'the slammed doors' and 'raised voices,' which evoke the tumultuous past. The speaker describes the routine of setting four plates at the table each morning, symbolizing the hope that the missing person might return. This ritual becomes a poignant metaphor for the family's attempt to negotiate with their grief and maintain a semblance of normalcy.

Emotionally, the poem conveys a deep sense of longing and resignation. The speaker grapples with the idea that forgetting might be a form of mercy, a way to survive without being consumed by sorrow. The tone is somber and reflective, capturing the complexity of holding onto memories while trying to move forward.

Literary devices such as repetition, metaphor, and imagery are used effectively to underscore the themes of memory and loss. The poem's free verse form allows for a fluid exploration of these ideas, mirroring the unpredictable nature of grief itself. The use of direct address creates an intimate connection between the speaker and the listener, heightening the emotional impact.

Ultimately, the poem suggests that grief is not just about remembering the dead but also about the gradual loss of one's own identity in the process. It raises poignant questions about the nature of memory and the ways in which we cope with the absence of loved ones, leaving the reader to ponder the true meaning of forgetting and forgiveness.

Word Dictionary15

Word	In English	Plain (English)	Pron.
grief	sorrow	deep sadness	greef
ritual	ceremony	a repeated action	rit-yoo-uhl
bargain	deal	an agreement	bahr-gin
bitterness	resentment	anger and disappointment	bit-er-ness
disinfectant	cleaner	a substance that kills germs	dis-in-fek-tant
monotony	sameness	lack of variety	muh-not-uh-nee
resignation	acceptance	giving up	rez-ig-nay-shun
somber	gloomy	dark and serious	som-ber
intimate	close	personal and private	in-tuh-mit
absence	lack	not being present	ab-suhns
forgiveness	pardon	letting go of anger	for-giv-ness
mercy	compassion	kindness shown to someone	mur-see
negotiable	flexible	open to discussion	ni-goh-shee-uh-bul
repetition	repeating	doing something again	rep-i-tish-un
symbolizing	representing	standing for something	sim-buh-lahyz-ing

Poet & Context

Poet—

EraContemporary

The poet of 'If You Forget Me Again' is unknown, and the poem appears to be a contemporary work. It explores themes of memory, grief, and the passage of time.

WhenContemporary

WhyThe poem reflects on themes of memory, loss, and the struggle to cope with grief. It explores the emotional complexities of remembering and forgetting within a family context.

FormFree verse

Themes & More

Themes

memorygrieflossfamilyforgiveness

Literary devices

repetition: The use of '487 days' emphasizes the enduring nature of grief.metaphor: The routine of setting four plates symbolizes hope and the attempt to maintain normalcy.imagery: Vivid descriptions like 'slammed doors' and 'raised voices' evoke the tumultuous past.

Análisis poético

Volver a Explorar

If You Forget Me Again

Original Poetry

Translation

If You Forget Me Again

If you forget me again

For 487 days, this house has lived with its mouth closed—

For 487 days, this house has been silent—

as if grief could be kept from spreading by pretending it isn’t there.

as if pretending grief isn't there could stop it from spreading.

For 487 days, you have woken into the same morning,

For 487 days, you have woken up to the same morning,

as though sleep were a door that locks behind you

as if sleep locks you in and the world resets while you blink inside.

and the world resets itself while you stand inside it blinking.

For 487 days, I've asked you—tomorrow. Tomorrow—

For 487 days, I have begged you—tomorrow. Tomorrow—

remember.

Remember them as they were before your mind learned to protect itself.

Remember them the way they were before your mind learned how to save itself.

And if you remember tomorrow, forget what makes you tremble:

And if you remember tomorrow, forget the things that make you shake:

forget the slammed doors.

Forget the loud voices that rise like something waking.

Forget the raised voices that rise like something waking up.

Forget the arguments we disguise as necessity,

Forget the arguments we dress up as necessity,

because some truths are too sharp to handle barehanded.

because some truths are too sharp to hold with bare hands.

Forget the bitterness.

Forget how we spoke because we were young

Forget the way we said things because we were young

and thought there'd always be another day to apologize.

and thought there would always be another day to apologize.

Forget the bad times.

Forget the deal you keep making with the past:

Forget the bargain you keep making with the past:

move on, move on, move on—

as if the past ever agrees.

But most importantly—

if you forget me,

you won't remember the teenager who drove that night.

you won’t remember the teenager who took the wheel that night.

You won't remember the phone ringing,

You won’t remember the phone ringing,

that long, dreadful ringing that made the walls lean in.

that long, awful ringing that made the walls lean closer.

You won't remember the headlights disappearing down the road,

You won’t remember the headlights disappearing down the road,

like light can be stolen cleanly, without a trace.

like light can be stolen cleanly, without leaving a trace.

You won't remember why three photographs are missing

You won’t remember why there are three photographs missing

from the hallway—

not ruined, not burned, not found again—

just absent, as if they never existed.

simply absent, as though they were never meant to exist.

You won't remember the routine you never chose:

You won’t remember the routine you never chose:

every morning at 7:13, you still set four plates on the table.

Like hunger is negotiable.

Like hunger is a thing you can negotiate with.

Like ritual is surgery.

Like ritual can be surgery.

Like if you keep doing it, the empty seat might stop being empty.

Like if you keep doing it, the missing seat might finally stop being empty.

Maybe forgetting is the only mercy we've learned.

Maybe forgetting is the only mercy we’ve learned.

Maybe it's the only way this family survives

Maybe it’s the only way this family survives

without falling apart.

without turning inside out.

Maybe the house—this place, this endless need of it—

Maybe the house—this place, this looping need of it—

feeds on your gentle refusal

feeds on your soft refusal

and calls it peace.

But tomorrow, when you wake up

and ask me where she is—

when your eyes search my face for the right answer

and your voice doesn't quite believe what you're saying—

and your voice doesn’t quite believe what you’re saying—

I'll tell you again.

I’ll tell you again.

And when you forget again,

I'll remember for you.

I’ll remember for you.

Chapter One — The People We Were (Revised)

I like to remember the past.

Not because it was good.

Not because I want it back.

I remember it because I’m afraid one day I won’t recognize the shape of you—

I remember it because I'm afraid one day I won't recognize the shape of you—

the people you were before forgetting learned your name.

the people you were before forgetting knew your name.

Before all of this.

Before the empty chair.

Before the photographs began to thin out along the hallway wall—

Before the photographs began to disappear from the hallway wall—

first one, then another, until three were gone like they’d never been printed at all.

first one, then another, until three were gone like they were never printed.

Before every morning turned into an argument with time.

Before every morning became an argument with time.

Now we live inside the remains of yesterday’s aftermath—

Now we live in the remains of yesterday's aftermath—

an endless loop of reaching and failing.

an endless loop of trying and failing.

You wake up.

Your eyes open like they’re searching for something you can’t name.

Your eyes open like they're searching for something you can't name.

Then you ask, careful and polite, as if asking makes it less real.

Where are they?

I tell you.

I say it the way I always do—

not too fast, not too slow, like the wrong timing could break you.

You swallow. You nod. You look relieved for a moment,

like the right words are a bandage and not a knife.

like the right words are a bandage, not a knife.

Then it happens again.

Your face changes before your mind catches up.

A sadness flickers across you—

quick as a shadow, gone before you can call it anything.

quick as a shadow, gone before you can name it.

You tell yourself it’s fine.

You tell yourself it's fine.

You smooth your expression.

You reach for routine.

And I watch you forget.

I used to think that if you forgot about me, the past would finally go quiet.

I thought grief would end when the remembering did.

I thought if you couldn’t name what happened, then maybe I could stop trying to.

I thought if you couldn't name what happened, maybe I could stop trying to.

But guilt doesn’t work like that.

But guilt doesn't work like that.

Guilt remembers.

It remembers in the way your hands don’t quite know what to do with themselves.

It remembers in the way your hands don't know what to do with themselves.

In the way you check the locks twice and call it “habit” like the word can protect you.

In the way you check the locks twice and call it "habit" like the word can protect you.

In the way the kitchen smells like disinfectant even when nothing is dirty.

In the way you avoid the hallway at night

and pretend you just “don’t like the dark.”

and pretend you just "don't like the dark."

Some days I can almost convince myself your forgetting is kindness—

a shield you learned to raise the way some people learn to breathe in water.

a shield you learned to raise like some people learn to breathe underwater.

Other days I wonder if it’s something else.

Other days I wonder if it's something else.

If you’ve been practicing not noticing for so long

If you've been practicing not noticing for so long

that you forgot what you were protecting.

And that’s where it hurts most:

And that's where it hurts most:

I’m the one who helps keep the world steady.

I'm the one who helps keep the world steady.

I am the one who says the correct name.

Who guides you through the day like I’m turning pages in a book

Who guides you through the day like I'm turning pages in a book

you refuse to reread.

I take care of you—

and somehow that makes the guilt heavier.

Because I can’t tell if I’m rescuing you

Because I can't tell if I'm rescuing you

or simply maintaining the cage.

or just maintaining the cage.

I don’t know when you changed.

I don't know when you changed.

Maybe it was slow.

Maybe it was the first time you said, I don’t understand,

Maybe it was the first time you said, I don't understand,

and felt relief instead of panic.

Maybe it was when you realized you could survive

if you stopped looking at the parts of the past that looked back.

You’re sadder now.

You're sadder now.

Even when you smile, it’s careful—

Even when you smile, it's careful—

like you’ve learned to test joy before you trust it.

like you've learned to test joy before you trust it.

Sometimes I wonder if some part of you remembers anyway.

Not the clear kind of remembering that turns into facts.

The other kind.

The kind that sits deep enough you can’t reach it without breaking.

The kind that sits deep enough you can't reach it without breaking.

A part of you that wakes up with dread already in your throat.

A part that knows the shape of absence

even when you can’t name it.

even when you can't name it.

Maybe that’s why you stare at the empty chair.

Maybe that's why you stare at the empty chair.

Maybe that’s why you set four plates at 7:13

Maybe that's why you set four plates at 7:13

as if the fifth person could be called back with proper placement.

As if you could teach the universe manners.

As if hunger is something you can negotiate with—

something you can soothe with routine until it becomes familiar.

Maybe that’s why you never ask about the three missing photographs

Maybe that's why you never ask about the three missing photographs

until you’ve already asked about everything else.

until you've already asked about everything else.

Four hundred and eighty-seven days.

Not years. Not “since it happened.”

Not years. Not "since it happened."

Four hundred and eighty-seven days of self-betrayal—

of careful lies you tell yourselves because the truth is too heavy to carry all day.

Four hundred and eighty-seven days of pain disguised as normal.

Four hundred and eighty-seven days watching you vanish—

not from the room, not from my life,

but from the version of you that could look at what happened

without turning away.

And pretending that forgetting is the same thing as forgiveness.

Sometimes—

when the house is quiet enough,

when the clocks stop sounding like clocks,

when you fall asleep believing tomorrow will be gentler—

I sit beside you and ask a question I’m too afraid to say out loud:

I sit beside you and ask a question I'm too afraid to say out loud:

Which one of us is actually forgetting?

You forget what happened.

I forget who I was before it did.

Maybe that’s what grief really is.

Maybe that's what grief really is.

Not the remembering of the dead—

but the slow disappearance of the person you were

when the living could still be trusted.

Explanation

Word Dictionary15

Word	In English	Plain (English)	Pron.
grief	sorrow	deep sadness	greef
ritual	ceremony	a repeated action	rit-yoo-uhl
bargain	deal	an agreement	bahr-gin
bitterness	resentment	anger and disappointment	bit-er-ness
disinfectant	cleaner	a substance that kills germs	dis-in-fek-tant
monotony	sameness	lack of variety	muh-not-uh-nee
resignation	acceptance	giving up	rez-ig-nay-shun
somber	gloomy	dark and serious	som-ber
intimate	close	personal and private	in-tuh-mit
absence	lack	not being present	ab-suhns
forgiveness	pardon	letting go of anger	for-giv-ness
mercy	compassion	kindness shown to someone	mur-see
negotiable	flexible	open to discussion	ni-goh-shee-uh-bul
repetition	repeating	doing something again	rep-i-tish-un
symbolizing	representing	standing for something	sim-buh-lahyz-ing

Poet & Context

Poet—

EraContemporary

The poet of 'If You Forget Me Again' is unknown, and the poem appears to be a contemporary work. It explores themes of memory, grief, and the passage of time.

WhenContemporary

WhyThe poem reflects on themes of memory, loss, and the struggle to cope with grief. It explores the emotional complexities of remembering and forgetting within a family context.

FormFree verse

Themes & More

Themes

memorygrieflossfamilyforgiveness

Literary devices