I almost forgot someone wrote a song for me.
I was flattered and embarassed and too young
to know that you can say thanks and no
at the same time.
I almost forgot how mad someone else’s mom was
when he got me a dozen long-stem red roses,
a gesture more fitting for a husband and wife
than two teenagers, she said.
I almost forgot that that one dated my sister first,
but I remember that I said yes
because it made me feel like I might be as pretty as she is.
I almost forgot how small I felt when the other one
got too drunk and introduced me as Sarah —
but how vindicated I felt
when his brothers booed him for it.
I almost forgot how both of them told me,
years apart, that they used to date someone like me —
but I have forgotten whether this was a good thing.
I almost forgot how another one’s sister
asked for my help choosing a dress,
and how I chose a gold one when no one was home.
I almost forgot that somebody’s dad swore me to secrecy
when he asked me to give his son
one more chance because I was “good for him.”
I almost forgot.