"Forgetting" is a prose poem I wrote in March 2016 for a Johns Hopkins Course entitled "Performing Poetry and Fiction: An Acting Workshop for Writers." The piece is set on my sixteenth birthday, a year that represented a lot of change for my immediate family. Here, you see me grappling with that change -- reflecting on the course of my past and attempting to put on a brave face for the future.

1. Forgetting
By Lily Kairis
It’s your sixteenth birthday and you sit on a patio chair with your legs
Crossed at the ankle like your grandmother taught you,
“like a good little lady,” she said. Your dad tells you, “Sit up straight.”
You do. Your hair’s tied in pigtails
with yellow ribbon that reminds you of a younger you, that reminds you
of newborn chicks,
Of Springtime, of beginnings.
It’s your sixteenth birthday and you sit like you’re tall,
And all you want is to blow out the birthday candles.
All you want is to begin —
and forget.
Forget.
Forget the burn of coffee as it slides down your throat
For the first time at sixth grade orientation.
Forget the tightness that gripped your chest the first time your
Grandma made you try on a bra.
Forget the way your stomach lurched like the illegal firecrackers
your friends set off in your parents’ backyard
on the first night you were grounded.
Forgetforgetforget –
Your sister.

2. Inhale.
Forget the sweatshirt she never washed,
Forget the opera songs she used to sing,
Forget how she’d dance with her arms spread like a fighter pilot,
Forget the car she’d tried to jump out of when you were thirteen.
Forget the way her eyes flashed white when she’d scream.
Forget.
But you sit there, pigtails waving in the wind, August sweat stuck to your skin,
Empty chair to your right mocking you like a sin
And you can’t –
Goddammit –
You can’t forget your sister.
You can’t forget sneaking around the corner of the side door and seeing your sister hiding there
the nights she almost ran away from home. You can’t forget apologizing for every little lie
you’ve ever told your parents, trying to be perfect so karma would save your sister, would help
her, would guide her, would keep her around.
You can’t forget how heavy it felt: worrying about her, all the time; listening to her, all the time;
putting your heart into keeping her there — keeping her sane. Keeping her keeping her keeping
her
You can’t forget the day she wasn’t hiding around the side door anymore.
You can’t forget when she left –
When she left you –
She left you –

3. She –
Pause.
Your mom flashes a picture with the disposable camera, of you and the pigtails and the cake.
Your grandpa says, “you’re a beautiful girl.” Your brother looks up to smile at you from above
his Gameboy color.
It’s your sixteenth birthday, and it’s August, and sweat sticks to your forehead like glue, and
your loving, broken family buzzes and swarms around you.
It’s your sixteenth birthday and you want to be ready.
For them. For her. For – you.
{Maybe after this you’ll call her.}
You fix your eyes on the birthday candles,
And let the past slip behind you like chrysanthemum seeds, the world open before you like
spring.
Forget.
Exhale.