Sometimes, I imagine a scenario where i have Alzheimer’s- and, in that scenario, I am writing notes all over the house, in books everywhere, writing everything and everyone I possibly remember - I have notes with tabs which you pull and they unfold to reveal lines upon lines of what makes each thing and person important- and special - and wanting to be remembered.
In this situation, I always forget to write about me. And when the Alzheimer’s begins erasing my mind, i forget how to read anyway.
There’s glimpses of it though. There’s flashes of clear lines and thoughts.
I’m looking for books, and I find an unfamiliar one tucked behind the bed. Although almost everything now days is unfamiliar.
I open the book and begin to read, your childhood was perfect, you were a happy child who.... I’m crying. What a beautiful memory.
I really do wish it was mine.
I close the book, it’s mine. I wrote it before this happened so that I could pretend the memories were mine to have and to hold. It works.
