My fortune resurfaced today. I forgot: I was supposed to remember September.
Three months is an abstract chunk of time; not impossibly far off, but far enough to blur expectation. "Good things" could be nearly anything. I felt silly putting any stock into such a generic prediction, but I did. The slip of paper sat on my kitchen counter for weeks, and I read it every morning over coffee, every night as I made dinner.
The counter got cluttered and the little scrap of paper disappeared. I pinned my hopes on other symbols, forged new routines, moved my eye from the future to the present. I was too excited about what came next to bother with those things that had passed. Somewhere along the line, the shock of being alone wore off, didn't scare me anymore. Abstract integrated with reality.
Three months later, this is my life. Full and flawed and happy and mine.