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  • Vilma Ginzberg

Peeks into an old brain’s diary



I wake up to a

low-sun dawn,

check the time on my clock,

check the day on my calendar.

Oh my, are we

so close to Christmas already?


My eyes roam my room

caressing my familiars.

Why do I feel like an

interloper in my own house?


The Post-it reminds me

in my own handwriting

to call my doctor.

Why is that again?


Hi!

So nice to chat.

See you again sometime.

Take care.

(I know I know her name)


I remember so much from the many decades,

but today’s events melt away

like snow in summer.


Covering up all the forgetting

Is getting harder all the time.

They say they forget too.

Is it the same as mine?


The phone rings.

Their daily checkin with me.

Are you OK? Call if you need anything.

You mean like a new brain

I ask the empty room.

I hang up, secretly feeling relieved

and also like I fooled them again.


I imagine my mind

fraying at the edges,

the memories falling away

in bits and pieces.

Wish I could sweep them up

and shovel them back in.

Makes me sad; I weep

for the loss of myself

who is the keeper of my life story.


I am not who I was.

Forget the platitudes;

when I say it now it is because

sometimes I don’t recognize

the stranger using my body.


Thank goodness for my habits;

they keep the structure of my days.

Yet I feel the need for new things

like the need for water.

If not I will drown

in the ocean of sameness

which is the ocean of forgetting.


It makes no difference

if the forgotten things happened

yesterday or years ago.

The past seems timeless

and even today is losing

its markers.


Talk to me.

Listen to me.

I need to not be alone with this.


© Vilma Ginzberg 12-22-2022



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