Fran Stewart mentioned the “implications of decisions” which has stuck with me all week like the ant bites on my arm.

My words in session are so PG because they’d be offended by the F me mistakes I’ve made. Like why still believe in God even when He shouldn’t believe in me? In reality: the scale dropped ten pounds overnight, which can’t be right, with all this weight I carry. I was trying to work in repetition into the words, word, word or phrase, but life’s already enough like walking a straight line towards the horizon: keep pushing forward and you end up full circle. But even this implies a starting point and a destination. (I’m trying to get at being behind and lost.) Decisions don’t have implications but consequences that either heal or scar. And I don’t think those sweet old women could handle all the blood of so many open wounds. It’s not always my blood on the knife in my hands. Some gashes are too deep for my knife. But most times both are just right, because no matter which way you cut it, x is always followed by why.  

A series of events led me inadvertently to a memoirs class with Fran.

I’m afraid of what I don’t remember? Though I remember many things. Is that why I can’t go back like my classmates x times my age who return with clarity and recognition, the sights, the smells, the feelings? I’m afraid of what I don’t remember? Though I do remember many things. Some things it seems I’m the only one. Or am I the only one who’s forgetting? Am I afraid of what I don’t remember? Though I do remember many things: stairs, a toy box, oldies on a clock radio, the hall bathroom, climbing a bookcase like Batman, African folktales on the dryer, an awful birthday wish, a cavern in the garden, the hole behind the fig tree, a slug in chocolate milk, Streets of Rage on Sega from Blockbuster early on a Saturday morning, the list continuing moment by moment, days and days, for years. But I’m afraid of what I don’t remember in the commas in between.

I somehow get it in my head making a baby is like an episode of Friends.

The one where Monica implies Chandler skip the foreplay, no questions asked, was it, did you? The one with the wham bam thank you ma’am cut to that’s how the deed is done reward on Chandler’s face. Not the one four years in, no beat but the heartache consoling God’s plan bigger than we understand life right now’s not the right time right now now or any other time right now now back to your regularly scheduled program. The one where Monica’s an achiever, hates failing tests and the one week she doesn’t get to take them. The one where they came, together, are you, I was, fuck another miscarriage might kill her. The one with the vitamins, diets, books, and doctors, internet searches how you do it every wives’ tale other tips and tricks, how many friends say every other day? I somehow get it in my head making a baby is like an episode of Friends, season 10, “The One Where Monica and Chandler Learn They Can Play But Never Win.”