I Remember

They say you have a disease.
They say only you cannot be cured.
They say I should give up hope.
They say I don't remember.
But I do.

I remember playing tip the milk jug.
I remember a favorite jacket around my arm as it bled.
I remember an ambulance ride with you by my side.
I remember taking you dinner at work.
I remember a New Year's Eve in the attic.
I remember you fixing the front door.
I remember delivering papers.
I remember forgetting which house and a "right" answer in "left".

They say you have a disease.
They say you can be cured.
They say I can help.
They say I shouldn't give up hope.
They say I don't remember.
But I do.

I remember the police.
I remember the paramedics.
I remember the shattering of glass.
I remember a bet with a bite.
I remember a New Year's Eve with you locked in your room.
I remember being denied access and hidden knives.

They say you both are sick.
For once I agree.

They say only one of you can be cured.
I once believed you both could.
I now believe neither of you could.

They say one of you can only help yourself, while the other can be helped.
I've never believed this to be true.
I believe first step for both of you is a personal need to survive.

They say I should give up hope on only one of you.
I remember giving both of you hope.
I remember you both refusing help.
I remember pleads that were wasted.
I remember a now distant thing called hope.
Because they say I don't remember.
But I do.