My youngest brother, his girlfriend, and my dad sat in the living room watching a movie.

“Poetry is too hard to understand,” said my brother after one of Lovelace’s poems was recited in the dialogue.

I was there, too, but not completely paying attention to the film. I tried reading Frank O’Connor’s The Lonely Voice, but to no avail. Three dying poinsettias at the base of one of my dad’s bookcases caught my interest, though.

I tried to think of how these plants could be a symbol for something universal, or even something that’s happening in my life. I thought for a while: “Old age—the flower pots are still wrapped in shiny red tinfoil, but there are only a few red leaves left. Old people deteriorate, but they can still wear nice clothes.” The idea didn’t last too long.

Then I thought another losing thought, but I can’t quite remember what it was about. Something like selective noxiousness, because poinsettias are poisonous to cats (which is why my mom didn’t give the poinsettias to our next door neighbor—she has maybe six cats, if not more)…

But I finally settled on something relevant. Universals are often sought after, but they are hard to master, and I don’t have the strength to tackle that project right now.

The thing about the poinsettias is that I remember them at Christmastime, and they were full and luscious. I then recalled a friend I used to know, and back then our friendship was full and luscious, too. The remembrance is the sweetest part—both of the friendship and the poinsettias (I guess).

I still know her name, what she looked like, and silly things like how she laughed and what her hair smelled like (one time she gave me a lock of her hair for a school project and I just kept it). I even remember her Chinese name.

The memory has also seen better days, though. I haven’t talked with her in years, and in that time details have eroded like the frills of intricate seashells that are smooth by the time they are found on the shore. That’s the funny part about remembering—you can remember knowing things, while not remembering those things directly. Memory is a transaction negotiated through a middleman.

The yet-living poinsettias still resemble the memory, however, because I have recently found a way to contact her brother and there may be a chance to keep that comatose friendship alive—although it will not return to its former splendor. With the uncertainty of the future, though, I cannot know if tomorrow’s opportunities will be as ripe as today’s. The poinsettias may be thrown out tomorrow.

I can see the part where the water from the bathroom sink smeared three words around, which reminds me that these words are fallible and temporary.

I will keep on writing, but later. It’s time for sleep now.