Forgetfulness, (Prose Poem)

 Over the past five years, “mindfulness” programs have exploded in popularity. In Grand Blanc, Mich., first-graders are breathing to the sound of Tibetan music before class. In Albuquerque, second-graders sniff and speak about raisins before eating them. In Yellow Springs, Ohio, students can choose yoga as an alternative to detention.

Hannah Natanson. Washington Post. 

I'm having a good day today.
That's because I've forgotten who I am.
And where I'm from.
And the purpose of my existence.
Instead, I float along on a gentle stream
labeled HUH?
So very pleasant and refreshing.
And this is what I'm teaching 
my fourth graders to do.
To forget. 
To let go.
To stop existing as an individual
whose head is crammed with 
facts and thoughts and emotions.
To be an empty balloon,
allowing the breeze 
to send you anywhere.
Anywhere at all.

I became a convert to
forgetfulness
about five years ago --
of course, I no longer
really remember the date or the process
of conversion. 
But I remember, in a vague sort of way,
that I wanted to forget everything
and start each day over again
with a clean slate.
Once I started doing that
my back pains went away.
If I ever had any.
My paunch shrank.
The arthritis in my knees -- 
what are knees, anyways? --
disappeared.
And my breath became so sweet
that humming birds circle my head
day and night. 

That's when I infiltrated
the fourth grade classroom
and usurped the teacher's position.
She was ready to retire anyways.
She left the minute I began blowing
soap bubbles at the children,
leaving behind a faint cloud
of chalk dust.
Or not. I have no real recollection
of how I got here.
So I made up that story.
Just now.
It's as good as any other.
It explains nothing but keeps
the eyes occupied while
the brain is cradled into
forgetfulness.

Today my fourth graders sit quietly,
touching their scarred desktops
like braille.
Passing over names and dates,
childish swearwords and holes
drilled in desperate boredom.
I sit at my desk, 
a soothing white blankness
overcoming my concern
about the hairy green thing
waving its tentacles
in the classroom doorway. 
Certain that I won't remember
a thing about it tomorrow.