By Kip Knott

I write to remember. At my age, every tick of my watch could be forgotten in the brief silence between it and the next tick. So here is what I did today: I awoke to the sound of my alarm, which imitates church bells like the one that rang when I first took Holy Communion in ‘42. The wafer is stuck to the roof of my mouth. What do I do?  I can’t reach in and scrape it off. Daddy’s gonna whip me good. What do I do?  

  I write to remember. Everything is fading. Here is what I did today: I woke up this morning and took a shower. I had oatmeal for breakfast. The kitchen here makes the best oatmeal I’ve ever tasted. It’s almost the way my sweet Jenny used to make it. I think they add cinnamon, though, which I love. Jenny, honey, can you add some cinnamon to my oatmeal tomorrow?

I write to remember. Here is what I did today: I awoke to the sound of my alarm, which rings like church bells. I took a long shower to loosen my aching back. Damn, I forgot my towel.  Jenny, honey… Jenny… I forgot my towel again. Can you bring me a towel?  

I write to remember. Jenny? Jenny? What did I do today?

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Kip Knott is a writer, photographer, and part-time art dealer living in Delaware, Ohio. His writing has appeared in Bending Genres, Best Microfiction Anthology, Bright Flash Literary Review, The Greensboro Review, HAD, Mid-American Review, The Sun, and Virginia Quarterly Review. His most recent book of stories, Family Haunts, is available from Louisiana Literature Press.