We got into bed and Mark put his arms around me. “That was a lovely evening,” he said. He fell asleep. I lay there. Two years earlier, when I had been pregnant with Sam, Mark would sing me a song every night and every morning. We called it the Petunia song. It was a dumb song, really dumb. Mark would make up a different tune and lyrics each time, but it never rhymed, and it was never remotely melodious. I sing to you, Petunia, I sing a song of love, I sing to you even though you are bigger than the last time I sang the Petunia song to you. Something like that. Or: Oh, Petunia, I sing to thee, even though it’s much too early and I have a hangover. You get the idea. Really dumb, but every time Mark sang it, I felt secure and loved in a way I had never dreamed possible. I had always meant to write down some of the words, because they were so silly and funny and made me feel so happy; but I never did. And now I couldn’t remember them. I could remember the feeling, but I couldn’t really remember the words.
Which was not the worst way to begin to forget.
New from
Nora Ephron
NOTHING
and Other Reflections
With Ephron’s flawless balance of irreverence and wisdom, acerbic wit and affection, I Remember Nothing says everything we’d been thinking but either forgot, misplaced, or never found the words for.
$22.95 • 160 pages • 978-0-307-59560-7
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