How do I mourn a husband who sits beside me? Who cannot remember doctor or diagnosis. Who called me Honey, held my hand. I could have held him all night, woke to memory, the word dementia. I cannot close my eyes or hide. Who do I tell? What do I need to remember? My shoulders are mountains where a shepherd must stop, her sheep hesitating then moving upwards. They hate the dark. What to remember? On the top of the mountain not a burning bush. A woman, ruins. Below where sea stifles land my body a sunken ship, its ruins. I am drowning in remembering. In memorari, to be mindful of. I don’t want to be. Want to forget alarms for medications, cups of water to be thickened so he doesn’t mis-swallow into trachea or lungs. Forget legs as stems that barely hold him. Not-remembering is venomous, a stonefish, unnoticeable, unremarkable at first, easily mistaken for polished stone. My shoulders are his mountains. I don’t live in the mountains, never a shepherd. My city has its own steep cliffs of loss. This city where I walk two blocks for apples. When the emergency dispatcher demands who is with him the man on the floor? He remembered to push the emergency button. We are on our way. I am not a mountain or shepherd or sea, I’m on my way.