Mom says when I grow up I’ll remember everything. I’ll remember the day we sold Aspirin as ecstasy at Publix. I’ll remember the mutt we rescued from Dr. Ahao and then saved Dr. Ahao from a rabid German Shepherd. She says I’ll remember the day we went to Squinny’s funeral and discovered the casket was closed so no one could see her. Not even God. Says I’ll remember the night hurricane Wilma snapped our palm trees and smashed out our kitchen windows. Says I’ll remember what it was like to grow up in the world before the Gulf of Mexico was worth less than Mars. Says I’ll find a way to remember the things I’ll try to forget. Like Sarah Palin and Glenn Beck. Like George W. Bush and Lady Gaga. Like ghosts care, mom says. Like they give a damn about your desire to forget. Mom says she’ll write a diary of diaries and fax it to me when I’m a big shot at a Forture 500 company. Says I should shut up and listen. Says I should take notes because the next thing she’s going to tell me will last forever. Amanda B. is leaving, she says. Leaving, I ask. Leaving, she says. She’s packing her bags. Making her bed. Taking the garbage out one last time before she hits the road. Amanda B. is walking out on mom, but she leaves me. Amanda B. counts her fingers as mom counts on me as I count Amanda’s footsteps from A – Z as Amanda B. looks back to see what she’s leaving. I fake wave good-bye, so long, good luck. She fake waves back and closes the door on mom (and me) forever. Just like that.