By Travis Park
The local newspaper began printing tomorrow’s memories beside the weather. Most were ordinary. You will forget where you left your keys. You will remember a song from high school while waiting at a red light. You will think of your fourth-grade teacher while buying tomatoes. People checked the column every morning and were surprised by how often it was right. Then one day the space beneath the forecast was blank. No memories scheduled. No explanation. That evening, neighbors sat on porches longer than usual. Parents lingered at bedtime. Couples repeated stories they already knew by heart. The next morning, the column returned. You will remember the smell of rain on hot pavement. You will forget a dream before breakfast. You will think of someone who no longer thinks of you. No one mentioned the blank day again, but circulation increased.
Travis Park is a poet and photographer whose work has appeared in Haikuniverse, McNeese Review, Route 7 Review, and INverse: Indiana’s Poetry Archive, with poems forthcoming in Modern Haiku, Presence, and Ribbons. He is an oblate novice at Saint Meinrad Archabbey in Indiana.
