I know more about forgetting than I care to remember. The months pass, and an old memory, like a gum I used to tongue, is no longer there — grown over — replaced with something else. Eventually, it all just disappears: the learned movement, the strange compulsion — gone, in a way that is neither victorious nor sad, but simply inevitable. I have accepted. Finger by finger, I have let go, and only found myself richer for it. Nothing stops. Nothing lasts. Age has settled into my bones, and taught me to want what wants to stay — and so little wants to stay — I must forget the rest. So, in large, life gets left behind because so much of it is too heavy to carry, and I only wish to fill my pockets with joy. This I will keep. This I will carry. This I will make last.