ROSES IN DECEMBER

by Robert Swartwood

"God gave us memory so that we might have roses in December."

—J.M. Barrie

The question isn't, can she do it?

She knows she can, just as that every morning her son wakes, she hopes it will be his last. Such thoughts are evil, damnable, inexcusable, but still they enter her mind. Even this morning, as she leaves Daniel snoring in bed and walks into Kyle's room, she wonders if today will be the day.

He's still asleep, still off in whatever world his five-year-old mind allows him to view in his dreams. She wonders if he remembers those, but knows he doesn't. Just as every morning when he awakes, he remembers nothing.

The doctors don't know what to call it yet. This is the first case they've ever encountered. Still, Doctor Thomas calls him lucky: It's amazing, really—at such a young age, I'm surprised Kyle hasn't lost it all.

For the past seven months, her son has forgotten nearly everything. The only thing he hasn't lost is his language acquisition, though when he wakes he's almost always too scared to say anything. He only looks about his room as if looking at it for the first time. He doesn't recognize his toys, his books, his yellow blanky, even his own mother and father—and really, ever since they'd received the news, Daniel hasn't even bothered to see his son that often.

The worst, though, is that Kyle doesn't even recognize himself.

"I can't imagine it," Daniel told her one night in bed after one of their many failed attempts at lovemaking. A candle on the dresser shifted shadows across the wall. "Every day, not knowing who everybody else is around you. Not even knowing who you are. It's unreal. I couldn't…"

He didn't finish the rest; he didn't have to. She knew exactly what he meant to say.