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LOSING AND FORGETTING ARE SIBLINGS
by April Halprin Wayland
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As I sit on this cold, stone bench,
Losing slinks up to my backpack,
puts her slim arm around its broad shoulder and whispers,
“Want to come over to my place, Handsome?”
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How could it resist?
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But just then, Forgetting saunters up to my brain,
lifts it off, sends it off to camp.
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And as the bus comes, as I stand up to board it,
Forgetting says, “Wow—those jeans are a tad tight.
Did you really need the pistachio frozen yogurt last night?”
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while my backpack sits on the bench, alarmed.
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(c) 2011 April Halprin Wayland, all rights reserved
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The story behind the poem:
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I was brooding about a critique I’d gotten.  My mind was wandering, wondering: if my main character has these flaws, do I, too?  I was also tired—we were flying back to L.A, so I had to get up early, pack, and catch
BART to get to the airport.
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A half-hour into the BART trip, the station agent in Berkeley phoned my cell. Â They had my backpack. Â I hadn’t even noticed it was gone. Â Where was my brain?
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Riding back to retrieve my pack, I tried to find the lesson. The lesson for me is to stay present. Â I hadn’t been present. Â I took out my notebook.
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As I wrote, two abstract concepts developed personalities.  The poem became lighter and it was fun to write. And guess what? Nothing was missing from my backpack!
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