It’s hard to forget a name.
It’s not particularly difficult to flip through hundreds of faces and still pick one out that never made any necessary impact on you but remains lodged in the back of your mind like a piece of mold growing unknown in the dark recesses there.
It’s hard to be forgotten.
I wouldn’t want to be forgotten, no, that’s not the goal here. Instead, remembered for something, anything, to get a nod, a hello, an okay. I’ve felt like I’m constantly setting the world on fire over here and burning bridges along the way.
I never learned any differently. I never stayed away.
And sadly, I’m losing hope—which never happens.
If it wasn’t enough to keep the bugs at bay from my sweet, organic mini-garden of peas, green beans, and greens, now I’m dealing with a stressed-out cat and a silly dog that lives in the next building over.
The dog, who I don’t mind even through it’s yappy bark, walks it’s worn-out owner up the driveway until she gives up and ceases the restraint. But still, so long as it remains fat and slow, no problem from me.
But when the dog poops in my front yard and little miss cigarette-toting, always-in-my-robe-and-pajamas doesn’t pick it up, you’re going to have a very angry neighbor who will kindly pick up your dog’s poop for you and leave it in a pretty paper bag for you on your doorstep with a note that says, “I’m sorry, ma’am, but it looks like you forgot this on one of your many walks.”
Clean up after your dogs, people. Or get a cat that does it herself.