Always.

938221He doesn’t always remember anymore.

He doesn’t always remember a name.

He doesn’t always remember that score.

He doesn’t always remember the song.

He doesn’t always remember those facts.

Sometimes. But, not always.

Not anymore.

But he always remembers the window pane and the emptied dirt road that lined the fallow field.

He always remembers the twilighted living room and the darts of a fluorescent kitchen light that interloped their dark.

He always remembers the yellow and blue kerchief he tied around his neck and the merit badges his mother stitched on his blouse.

He always remembers waiting for his fellow troops.

He always remembers the afraid.

He always remembers the wanting of home.

He always remembers the drowsy.

He always remembers the scratching of a salt-shaded beard.

He always remembers the repetitions and the self-recriminations.

He always remembers all the quitting.

That he remembers.

Always.