Losing my memory
What if I lost my memory at 40, kind of how my grandpa is losing his now? Would I have that same opaque look in the grayness of my eyes as I stare numbly at my husband when he says I shouldn’t be cutting the tentacle of the octopus with a spoon? Would I be silent even as I my frightened eyes fidget from one corner of the room to the other?
My son is ordering today’s specials. I know that. But who’s the waiter? Do I know him? Should I know him? Why is my son taking the orders? And why is the waiter sitting down, telling my son what to write?
I joke. But am I?
Does my mind push me to give up or is it my resignation that welcomes this oblivion? I stare ahead at the Christmas lights outside the front window. My family’s is talking, but their conversation circles in murmurs around my head: unnoticed. I don’t care. I let it pass. I stare ahead.
I’m tired of people reminding me. I’m tired of people wanting to carry me forward. I just want to laugh. A punchline needs no date. I’m losing my memory, but I have not lost my sense.
I continue staring at the Christmas lights. A turbulent whisper tugs my mind, some melancholy I’ll do good to suppress. My eyes stop scanning the room. My back arches backward, my neck strains due the weight of my head. I look at the floor.
What if I lost my memory at 40? Would I sit as resigned, afraid, and oblivious?
I turn away from my grandpa. I should show respect.