You won’t remember arriving in this foreign land for the first time because all lands to you were foreign. You won’t remember the way the mist settled on the mountains or the way the ground was parched and yellow until it wasn’t, until it rained for days on end.

You won’t remember the aquabuses or the fishing boats. You won’t remember the kayakers powering along the water with paddles spiraling under the midday sun. You won’t remember the day we spent at the beach, trying to shelter you from the wind, looking out at the shore and contemplating many more days at the beach. You won’t remember that we didn’t spend any more days at the beach.

You won’t remember the nights you woke every hour or less. You won’t remember the other mothers and the other babies who made waking up every hour or less feel okay. You won’t remember the friends we made.

I hope you won’t remember the few hours I spent away from you every day, trying to write. I know you won’t remember the hours I spent away from you berating myself for spending a few hours away from you. You won’t remember Jenny, who loved you and looked after you so beautifully I thought I might be out of a job.

You won’t remember the days when you didn’t see your Dad, because he had to work so much. You won’t remember that he woke up with you every hour that you needed him, even when he had to stay awake for twenty more. You won’t remember the day you spent at his work, being cooed over and carried through a futuristic market filled with people in futuristic makeup. You won’t remember that you cried and screamed so loudly afterwards that we had to laugh, because it was so painful. Sorry about that.

You won’t remember the night I left you with Jenny, so that I could drink rum punch and feel like a seventeen-year-old again, drinking for the first time. Make that thirteen. Don’t drink at thirteen. You won’t remember these months, or this city, this chapter of our lives.

So I’ll remember it for you.