The morning I was born, I don't remember. 
You did. You told me many times of it.
The horrors of the night before and all the happiness that followed after.

The morning of your death, I do remember.
You didn't.  I keep admonishing myself for it.
The call: 'I'm doing well' the night before and all the horrors that greeted me the moment I woke up.

The mornings of my life without you will multiply.
You'll not remember those. I will.
For me, for you, for as long as I live.