Swedish Lullabies

After the movie, 

he said he was hungry,

so we went to the pho place

that's open late on Fridays.

I asked him what he thought

of the movie, and his eleven-

year-old enthusiasm was joyful

to see. Two huge steaming bowls

were set before us and we ate in

silence for a few moments; then,

he put his chopsticks down and

looked up at me. Did you ever know

my mom, he asked. Never, in

the years I had known him, had he

ever asked about his mother, who is

dead now. I set my chopsticks down

and said, I only met her a couple of times.

He waited. The first time, I went on,

was before you were born, right after 

your dad met your mom. Your dad 

introduced us; it was at a beach party.

This was all down in Los Angeles, 

I'm sure you know that. She was my

friend's girlfriend, right? So we talked a

little, got to know each other. But it was

a year or so before I saw her again, and 

she was pregnant with you that time. She was-

and here I struggled with how to describe

to her son what Karen was like; an addict,

a thief, a failed starlet, generous yet cruel,

capable of vast love and sacrifice and

selfishness beyond metric - She was 

very excited to be a mom, very excited

to meet you. She used to sing to you, 

while you were kicking inside of her,

songs from her country; they were so 

beautiful and sad sounding, I couldn't

bear to listen for long because they always

reminded me of things I didn't want to think

about. But they were lovely songs, to 

give you peace. I had to stop here, I had to 

look away from him. She loved you, I told him

and he said, How do you know,

and I answered, Because she tried to be stronger

than she knew how to be, so you could 

be here now. She turned her back on herself

while you were growing in her, to protect you.

The last time I met her, it was just before I 

moved back here. You were a few months old,

I guess. I met you for the first time, too.

She was so happy - and I stopped again, 

because I remembered that night and how

I had gone out to the supermarket and bought

her a dozen cases of formula because when I saw

her try to breastfeed him I knew there was junk

in her and I panicked and wanted to do something,

anything, no matter how futile, how small and 

irrelevant, and she had hugged me tight and thanked

me with tears in her eyes because she knew why I had

done it and we stood there in each others' arms

crying as he slept wrapped in flannel on the

couch beside us - so happy you were finally there.

I don't know what he knows about his mom,

what his dad has told him; she died when he was

barely a year old. Do you remember her, I asked.

He shook his head, picked up his chopsticks

again and said, It's for the best. And I said,

why's that? You can't miss what you don't remember,

he shrugged. And I thought, is that really so?

Is that why we are allowed to forget?