The Owl of Forgetting

In the basement of my mind, there lives an owl. He is old, fat, and always hungry. He is the owl of forgetting.

Once I fed him the entire multiplications table. Right up to and including 12x12. It took him some years to devour that feast, but he did it. I feed him dates, names, phone numbers too. Those, he loves. Appetizers. Inhales them like there is no tomorrow. Friendships are great. Ashley, Sarah, Rose; who are they? Stories about loved ones, heroes, and legacies, all turn to crumbs when he is done with them. The countries in Africa blend into one and the oceans that divide us, now alphabet soup. The pathologies of plants and the table of elements were delicious while they lasted. And the books that I read, word for word, are now a dim light. But that which he loves most of all is a visitor. A visitor from the attic of my heart. And from time to time, his wish comes true.

He is the vampire of the seconds and minutes of my days.