An Eraser That Can't Be Seen

I can't remember the first time I fell asleep.
I imagine it was shortly after my birth.
I remember falling asleep last night,
it came swiftly before it left
in the morning.

I can't remember the first time I went to the beach,
though, I imagine I was still quite young
as were my parents then. The waves must have
sounded similar to today. Why would
their language ever need to change?

I remember being a child and cutting myself
deeply on accident. I tried to cut a piece
of cheese with a knife but only cut deep
into my right pinky. Screaming, crying,
frantic - my blood smeared the countertop.

I remember my grandmother preparing the carcass
of a turkey she has just slaughtered for
our meal that day. I saw it's cavity emptied
of organs, hollowed, and offered to us
to sustain us for another day.

I remember being in my grandmother's house
long after she had died and finding
her bible covered in dust, yellowed,
marked and covered in aged brown paper.
I wished to take it but I left it behind.

I have forgotten more than I remember.