"Press one for the admission's office"
There goes your oppositions. As nails scratch on the blackboard. You give me this unrelenting shiver. Spinal. Encompassing. I could not speak. You said I could remember. Eventually. Even without you, I will.
"Press two for the registrar's office"
My memory thrives on a habit. Memorize to remember: an actor behind a script to deliver, practiced speech to declaim, banal prayer for each rosary bead.
"Press three for the accounting office"
That is not what my memory wants. You said words can have no meaning without memory. Dictionaries will fail us. That is not what I need. You said. I need to remember what is lost. Forgotten. Retrieve the unwanted, picture all the shame, revive the suffering. We remember the savior nailed on the cross. Heroes shot in the park. Celebrate those. Consecrate our shattered hearts.
"Or stay on the line for assistance"
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