I'll phone you tonight. It's not the night we agreed on, but I'll phone you.

Cause I might forget on Sunday.

That's what normally happens. I forget. And you ring me.

But you haven't.

You're not allowed, you said, to ring me. That's why you asked me to get people to ring you.

That seems so long ago.

Too long ago.

Yet I remember my visit, three weeks ago, to come see you.

Twice.

It's so clear, you're big grin that I know I have, your warm arms and smoke-smelling clothing.

I never thought I'd be pleased to smell cancer-sticks.

To be safe in Daddy's arms. Again.

Though, I must admit. Between those visits, the year before, Easter, Christmas two years ago, growing up with you as a child before I moved, there isn't much else I remember.

I just remember your smile.

It never changes.

I wonder if you remember me the same. If you remember me all the time.

You could miss all my birthdays and holidays. So long as you remembered me