My son is not a great one for remembering anniversaries, far less commemorating them. Once in a while he’ll surprise us by calling when we’re asleep, to ask if it’s someone’s birthday, and then sulk because no one is in the mood to speculate why he has a nagging feeling it ought to be somebody’s special occasion.
When he’s at home, which is quite often considering he goes to college in another city, he seems to spend a good deal of that time in a state of perennial apology. “I’m sorry,” he’ll likely tell his girlfriend on Monday, “I forgot Mondays are special because we first met on a Monday.” On Tuesday morning, he’ll be just as effusive: “I know I should have remembered that it’s the first anniversary of the first month that we met, please forgive me.” On Wednesday, “I know I first said I liked your pink dress on this day, three months ago. I’m an ass for not remembering.”
By the time Thursday comes around, he’s abject that he forgot it was the day of week they first had coffee, or lunch, or at any rate some form of food or beverage, together. By Friday, he’s a shadow of his former self. “How could have I forgotten you said you might consider going out with me 57 ago, today?” On Saturday, he’s probably apologising because he forgot it was a week ago that her mother caught a chill, or they held hands, or they went out for a movie in which she cried, or her best friend broke up with her, or she fed the puppy by the gate...
Seeing he has to remember so much — the day he thought her hair looked pretty, the day she said he said she ought to be a model, the first, fifth and 25th time they fought, the hour when they argued about their favourite movies, the time he forgot he had to call her, the time she couldn’t call him because her father was at home, the first time they chatted on the net, the 100th occasion they saw each other over Skype — it’s all right then to forget his sister’s birthday, or to greet us on Diwali, or wish his grandparents on their anniversary.
To his mother’s irritation, he has been writing “first day/ week/ month/ year” alerts to himself: “First time she wore a dress”, “first ride as a couple in dad’s car”, “first time I bought her flowers”... “How could he forget how much money I asked him to withdraw from the ATM,” my wife seethed, “when he can remember the first time she wore a polka-dotted shirt?”
I didn’t mind as much, not until the apologies turned into appeasement. Forgotten the first time they’d gone to Barista, had he? “Never mind, baby” he said, “let me make it up to you,” implication of which I realised when he asked for a loan for a gift that would tide over his act of remission. Failed to remember the first time they exchanged books? “Let me buy you a book to remind you I forgot,” he offered. Soon, little tokens were going out as a ritual. “What did you forget today?” his sister teased him. “I don’t know,” he sighed, “but whatever it is, at least I have the remedy for it.”
Yesterday, he took his sister shopping for a gift for his girlfriend to commemorate a year of being together. “But that’s three months away,” my daughter reminded him. “I know,” said my son, ‘but I’m likely to forget, so if I’ve already given her a gift in advance, at least she won’t shout at me.” He might have found a solution to his chronic forgetfulness, only it’s likely to drag the family closer to poverty.
