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  We got into bed and Mark put his arms around me. “That was a lovely evening,” he said. He fell asleep. I lay there. Two years earlier, when I had been pregnant with Sam, Mark would sing me a song every night and every morning. We called it the Petunia song. It was a dumb song, really dumb. Mark would make up a different tune and lyrics each time, but it never rhymed, and it was never remotely melodious. I sing to you, Petunia, I sing a song of love, I sing to you even though you are bigger than the last time I sang the Petunia song to you. Something like that. Or: Oh, Petunia, I sing to thee, even though it’s much too early and I have a hangover. You get the idea. Really dumb, but every time Mark sang it, I felt secure and loved in a way I had never dreamed possible. I had always meant to write down some of the words, because they were so silly and funny and made me feel so happy; but I never did. And now I couldn’t remember them. I could remember the feeling, but I couldn’t really remember the words.

  Which was not the worst way to begin to forget.

  New from

  Nora Ephron

  I REMEMBER

  NOTHING

  and Other Reflections

  With Ephron’s flawless balance of irreverence and wisdom, acerbic wit and affection, I Remember Nothing says everything we’d been thinking but either forgot, misplaced, or never found the words for.

  Available November 2010 in hardcover from Knopf

  $22.95 • 160 pages • 978-0-307-59560-7

  Please visit www.aaknopf.com