Sometimes when people are apart they tend to forget. Or they fear the other will forget. But with you I have no such fear, for even if you forget, I will be here to remind you. And how could I forget? I may forget, but by then I will be of no consequence to anyone, to even you. Alone, even if surrounded by family - perhaps even three generations of them - alone, but not lonely, I will be fortunate if I live long enough to forget, there sitting - maybe rocking the memories of decades of life to and fro, a warm hand occasionally taking me off course—from the whimsical journey through time that dementia has me making alone—but after a smile and a squint of recognition from a grandchild I'll return to where I belong, amongst a throng of memory and you may be there, but then again you may be not.
By that time all that I recall may be the fall off my bicycle back when I was ten, when the pedal made a gash into my left knee, and that I hobbled bravely back to the campsite with blood dribbling down to my ankle, and how proud I was of myself not to shed a single tear, even as mama applied peroxide. I will remember with a smile, a happy salute to childhood, one which an innocent one seated before me may believe that I am smiling with them, and although wrong they are not mistaken, for my mistakes will have assured that I am there, even if I am unaware of my own presence, I will have survived to be with those I love and have loved, even if only in memory, if not by mine, perhaps only by theirs, I will be alive, even if I seem dead.
the art of love
l.m