When you absently yank tissue from the box and brace yourself for the next deep sob; when your child, your happy, confident big girl sits on your lap, truly unable to stop crying, it's easy to forget everything else. When you wonder how and why she mourns so actively someone who died years before she was born; when you don't know how to help her through this grief that washes over her every few years with such debilitating rawness, you don't think about other things. When she asks questions about him and you answer lightly, believing you've given her a little peace with funny stories, only to hear the next day from her teacher that she broke down over the very trivia you gave her about the grandfather she never met, you forget the rest. When you desperately want her signature beam back on her face, but see that even when the tears stop, all that's left are knit and mulling brows, and you feel powerless to change it, you just forget everything else.
When you get a note from your kindergartner's teachers about "episodes" of shaking that seem beyond her control, you can read only those words and no others. When your small girl seizes; when her eyes are absent and her body rigid, you are right there with her and nowhere else. When you dial the number to a neurologist for the first time, no other numbers exist at that moment, no other voice but the one at the other end of the line. When you schedule the first test, you don't think about what comes after it.
When you have friends aching in bereavement, all other friends recede. When worry, fear and loss are prevalent, you forget about peace and progress. It's easy to forget.
And then you sit on the swing next to your girl as she flips her feet up and lets out a yelp of unabashed satisfaction. You look at the curve of her upside down chin and consider it the sweetest and softest lilt of a line ever. You see her legs expertly wrap around the swing chains and deeply appreciate the little body twist she employs to keep herself swinging. And you forget about seizures and neurologists for a while.
The volume and tone of the throaty and spontaneous laugh reveal how little control your big girl has over her guffaw. She stabs a dirty white foot cover at you as you reach to yank your own off in battle. You roll on the floor, bones bumping others and the carpet, both laughing and jabbing, yelling "sock attack!" You raise your sock-weapon and offer an affectionate, silly, defensive block, prolonging the beam trained on you. And you forget the sobs and the break down at school.
It's easy to forget.