remembering what it was

you came
upstairs for something.
what was it?
you go
from room to room,
scratching your head,
turning
lights on
then off, you open
up the closet,
close it.
you lie down in
bed and stare at
the ceiling fan,
then lean over
to pick up
a new biography
on salinger.
not the kennedy
salinger, but
the other one.
franny and zooey,
that one.
you look at
the pictures first,
staring at
the transformation
of years, from
youthful, lean
and dashing,
to old codger,
bent with white
hair, still hiding
in the light
of who he was.
then you remember.