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