Robert remembers his youth well. He recalls playing in the fresh, dewy grass on sun-drenched spring days, plucking dandelions for his kindergarten crushes. He remembers his tenth birthday, surrounded by friends as he rips into each colorfully-wrapped present. The fond memories of dancing with Eva at Senior Prom, the girl with warm brown hair and hazel freckles who sat next to him in biology class. Years later he dances with her at their wedding, a bouquet of pastel blue forget-me-nots in Eva’s hands.

    Robert remembers the day his daughter was born, her first steps, her first day of school. The peaceful nights he spends singing her to sleep, her dolphin night light whirring gently, illuminating a soft blue. He remembers family movie night each Friday, going out to eat on weekends, and spending time with the people he cherishes most.

    He remembers going for a drive one night, like he’s done time after time. But he does not remember the accident that changes everything, nor does he remember anything afterward. Robert wakes to white hospital walls and the hushed murmurs of nurses, his head reeling. He does not know why he is there, why his mind feels like it might split at any moment. 

    “Do you remember what happened?” The doctor speaks as if she’s addressing a child, as if afraid that he wouldn’t understand. Robert places a hand to his temple, resting it against the bandage wrapped around his head.

    “No,” he says. He can feel his heart pounding in his chest, fearing the worst. “My family–where are they?”

    “They will be arriving to see you shortly,” the doctor says, scribbling on her clipboard. “There was an accident, you’ve been in a coma for 22 days. It appears you are suffering from memory loss.” A half hour later, Robert’s family arrives. He does not understand their distress.

    His family assumes that the memory issues are temporary, but he shows no signs of improvement. The last memory Robert can recall is the day of his accident, as if frozen in time. Anterograde amnesia, as the doctors call it.

    He does not remember the constant testing he endures, the thousands of puzzles, and questions, and studies. He does not remember his daughter’s graduation, or the day he’s brought to the chronic psychiatric unit. 

    Robert does not know he is dying when his life is coming to an end, years later. He does not remember his family visiting for the final time, their faces twisted with grief and regret. He does not recall Eva setting a bouquet of pastel blue forget-me-nots on his bedside table, or the gentle kiss she places on his temple.

    He can only remember picking dandelions on sunny spring days, celebrating with friends on his tenth birthday, dancing with the freckled, brown-haired girl from biology class. He can only think of his family as he glances weakly at the forget-me-nots, wondering why they aren’t there.