ROSES IN DECEMBER

Another time, after one of their few successful tries at making love, Daniel whispered, "Actually, I do kind of wonder what it's like. It must be… nice. To not remember every mistake you made. To not remember every nasty thing someone said about you. Or every nasty thing you thought about someone else."

Maybe, she thought, but what about everything that was good? Every job you did well? Every joke that made you laugh? Every person you had ever loved?

She wonders this now, staring down at her son. She thinks about two nights ago, how she'd attempted something new: keeping Kyle awake into the morning. Her idea was that whatever stole his memory did so during his sleep. But it hadn't worked, and he slept most of the day and into the night, when he awoke and didn't recognize anything.

They'll call it a mercy killing, won't they? If she were to take a pillow and place it over his face? If she were to push his head down under the water during his bath and keep it there, no matter how much and how hard he struggled?

They'll understand; she knows they will. Daniel especially.

She keeps watching Kyle. The steady rise and fall of his chest. The drool dried in the corner of his mouth and down on his chin. The soft brown hair on his head.

Closing her eyes, taking a deep breath, she takes a step forward. Pauses. Takes a step back. Opens her eyes again and wonders, Is today the day?

But that isn't the question, just as can she do it? isn't the question.

No, the question is simply, can she forget?