The Things You’ll Never Remember

You won’t remember

the way I cut your toast into hearts

every Tuesday.

Or how I let my coffee go cold

just to stay beside you

five more minutes.

You won’t remember

the way I memorized your babble

like sacred text,

or how your first laugh

brought tears to a part of me

that had forgotten how to weep with joy.

You won’t remember

the 2 a.m. lullabies

sung with cracked voice

and heavier eyes,

or the nights I stood

over your crib

just to watch you breathe—

as if my gaze

could keep you safe.

You won’t remember

the purple cup

you insisted was lucky.

The Band-Aids for invisible wounds.

The stories told the same way

because changing the ending

made you frown.

But I will.

I will remember it all.

I will carry the weight

of every unnoticed act,

every quiet sacrifice

that never made it to the baby book.

Not because I need thanks.

But because this is the shape love takes

when it builds itself

in a thousand unrecorded moments.

So when you ask one day

why I still get teary-eyed

at songs you don’t recall,

or photos of a park

you swear you’ve never seen—

Just know,

even if you forget,

I never will.