the cost of remembering

"it's a birthday present,"
i said to justify the
notebook on the counter. to the
cashier with familiar sloping
shoulders, reminiscent of a time
of blue sweaters and tchaikovsky.

better to be thought a girl who
doesn't write at all, than a girl
who writes and then stops and waits
for new notebooks.

either he didn't recognize me,
or he did a damn good job staring
through my grown up body.

as if i had been so far on the
fringe of this circle, that i
had tumbled out of the world
altogether, and the only record kept
of my existence were countless pages
recorded September through May 5 years ago.

he shrugged familiar sloping shoulders,
ringing up the cost of new pages.

novelty cost $5.79 that particular
Wednesday in January.