I wouldn't mind forgetting how many cokes it took me to get through the day and this night shift. It would be nice to forget that we live in a world where 74 year old heroine addict grandmothers exsist, and it would be alright if the words "poor prognosis" weren't in my daily vocabulary. I don't want to remember my dishwasher that needs unloaded or my half painted stair case. And I definitely don't want to remember the strange wound on the strange body part that I strangely had to dress.
Instead, today I want to remember that moment when it was 4:00 p.m. and all three of us were still in our pajamas. We were sitting on the couch and Todd was making Lucy a little human airplane. He would fly her to my face and I would kiss her and she would laugh, then we would laugh. I want to remember how Todd always tells her "tell me secret's" and puts her face to his ear and waits for her to do her squeals. I want to remember that today Todd told me he loved my ankles.