Memory, by Nina Miller

All of my contemporaries are worried about their memory.

It begins with the elusive noun — what is that guy's name? We had this wonderful dinner at ______?  It moves on to dates — when was it we went to Russia? to Yosemite?

We all complain of household lapses. I walked down the hall to get something but I couldn't remember why I was there. And we sometimes let things we should do slip by: appointments we should keep, performances for which we have tickets. We tease each other as a way of minimizing the anxiety, but it hovers over our shoulders, threatening what is supposed to be the serenity of the later years.

Some of us take preventive steps, like courses in memory retention. I do jigsaw and crossword puzzles and play Scrabble, having read that the brain-hand connection is useful. Recently a group of students came to the house to include me in a study of seniors living with chronic pain. The study seemed flawed to me in its design, but there was one element that I loved, which involved some mathematical memory activity forward and backward. I knocked it out of the park, and for weeks I comforted myself with that success as I searched for lost glasses, keys, a dental bridge.

I like to think that the decline in memory is not due to cells that are dying, or knots deep in the interior of my brain, but rather on an overload of information. The reason I can't remember the last novel I read is because I've read so many novels. My friend's name, a friend I've known for years? Well, I have so many friends; how could I possibly remember all their names? The video I just put on seems vaguely familiar. Ten minutes in and I realize I've already seen it. But then, I've seen thousands of movies.

Nice rationalizations, but really of no comfort. Mnemonic devices, notes to myself, younger friends who tactfully whisper missing information into my ear — those things help. As does letting go of the struggle to retrieve a name or event from the foggy forest of my mind. Somehow, when I'm not struggling, the missing piece of data pops into consciousness, and I want to kiss it, out of gratitude. It may happen moments after I've given up the struggle to extract it, or even  weeks later.

I would like to know more about the physiology of the aging brain. Did my smoking (given up almost 50 years ago) leave blank holes? And what is the impact of my daily Scotch? Wait, no, I don't want to know about that one because it's a behavior I'm unwilling to change.

I've watched several friends travel the terrifying road of Alzheimer's. That, or dementia, is the fear that lies beneath our anxiety over lost names and missing keys. Mostly these friends have descended quietly into that dark and lonely place, though a few gentle, sweet people have become aggressive and even violent. It is the survivors who suffer most, I think, as they watch someone beloved, someone who was an anchor of strength, fade away. 

I cannot, will not, do that to my children. I don't want to leave them with a memory of me lost to them, lost to myself. And so I formulate a plan to obtain what is needed and try to work out the legalities, the  alternatives. Most of all, I hope I can remember the plan in all of its details when the time comes.

The Day of Possibilities, by Nancy Osborn

The day . . .

when nothing happens

of sorting spools of thread

of sitting on the upstairs porch in the sun, drinking too much coffee and wishing there were still weeks of summer to come

of backyard sweeping

of silence, when I talk to no one

of smiles

of no slugs or snails on the garden walkway


The day . . .

of facing the fact that I'm not a very courageous person

of loving the feeling of my sneakers and socks (that are not falling down) as I walk down the street

after a night of uninterrupted sleep

of no internet connection

of no obligations to anyone

of being curious

of eating only healthy foods

of cleaning the spiders out of the basement


The day . . .

I stop fretting over how I lost my favorite shawl

of not dwelling on how far our nation has fallen in the realm of civility

of looking at every person I pass on the street and wondering what they are grateful for

I throw out my folder of resumes; I'm done applying for jobs

I consider the merits of meditation, which is probably not the best approach; I should just pull out my bench and sit

I realize that despite those fantasies of my younger years, I'm never going to be a back-to-the-land homesteader

I delete everything on my Amazon Wish List because I've read that article about "how many books do you realistically think you can read in the remaining years of your life" and I know my Amazon list is far too long and I already have more books stacked by my bed than I can ever read

I consider who I want to be in my next lifetime; a creator of illuminated manuscripts is my number one choice


The day . . .

I really sit down and try to devise that message to someone I think is my high school friend, our connection lost these last 20 years, whose name I found on the internet. I need to say enough so she'll know it's me, but not enough for it to come back and bite me if it isn't her. I think of this in the same way I used to construct love letters to potential romantic partners. Cryptic, but secretly meaningful, if they know the sender.


The day . . .

I finish the letter I've owed to my brother since July. A brother I hardly know as we went our own ways back in another century. But now that we are approaching the last decades of our lives, it seems as though I am longing to reach across the years and miles to find what was lost between us for all this time; to see whether there is anything that might fill in the gap between us.


The day . . .

I take out my mother's journals and try, again, to transcribe her reflections on her love for her best friend — a love she never revealed to her friend, as far as I can tell. But I like to believe her friend knew, as you often can know these things, without the need of language.


The day . . .

I start writing my honest feelings about how I've led my life. It seems like it might be now or never. What have I been waiting for? What knowledge about myself do I already possess that I can't bring myself to commit to the reality of ink on paper.


The day . . .

I re-read the various love letters I've received in my life. There are four packets of them in the attic, and their contents tell me something about myself, or at least the self I was in the imaginations of these lovers.


The day . . .

I finally sit down to write that tell-all memoir I've promised a friend. The memoir of men, women, and sex in my life. I've only gotten as far as compiling the list of who I'll write about and the pseudonyms I'll assign to them.


The perfect day . . .

One that is all my own, with nothing on my schedule.

September Mornings, by Kimberly A. Zajac

in the cooler mornings of September
the smell of earth and mushrooms
is caught in the gossamer
of spider webs I can not see
but feel when I walk through
only that which glistens

a sticky near-invisible thread
clings to my arm bare with a shiver
my throat holding my poetic truth
waiting for the words
my cheek still warm from the pillow I dreamed upon

and I'm captured in the magic it teases of —
i could stay here forever
in this pause between season
when I do not have to be ahead
and before I fall behind
always struggling to catch up

I do not need to confine my freedom
in boots just yet
laced in expectations and calendars
still earthing instead barefooted

I feel the moon drops that fell
from my lunar sister
just last night
ignore the clock, she whispers

I drink in the heady grapes being harvested down the road
I'm near drunk in the cooler mornings of September

The Child Who, by Kathy Hopkins

The child who explores anywhere with small sure-footed steps.
The child who agrees with life.
The child who sees things in the clouds.
The child who is excited to come along on any adventure.
The child who giggles with delight at the water.
The child who can fight over sharing his toy and roll on the ground in laughter with the same friend.
The child who went to school excited to learn more reading and was put in the non-readers group.
The child who would not leave the truck while his household was being moved.
The child who slept on a suitcase for 3 months in Africa.
The child who had a very special blanket.
The child who had a sibling and was sad when she didn’t leave our house.
The child who went to a foreign school and learned by watching.
The child who skied one small hill at a time until he was at the top.
The child who could not spell.
The child who had a mind full of stories.
The child whose paper stories got too many red marks.
The child who teaches himself music.
The child who sings.
The child who draws cartoons.
The child who paints full canvasses.
The child who inspires friends.
The child who loves.
The child who jokes himself out of trouble.
The child who explores the world.
The child who experiments.
The child who discovered he is smart after so many other messages.
The child who teaches.

3 Poems, by Heather Boob

Dance Your Heart Out

The room was so hot that
the walls were sweating.
The floor was sweating.
A direct effect of the energy exuded
by a band called The Nightsweats.
When you really start to let go
your knees will sway.
Your pelvis will shake.
Your inner Elvis will show himself.
I dance alone
in an empty room
to let go.
I dance, surrounded by
strangers.
Sweating.
We harvest heated energy.
How efficient.


Laugh

We have laughed under three full moons.
Through summer nights.
Who knew
that strangers
could feel
so close, so familiar.

The first moon —
Witness to the Spark.

The second moon —
The Unravelling.

The third moon —
Bidding us Adieu.

You said that
A sense of humor
was of most
Importance.
I agreed.

So many moons shared
over decades of bellies laughing.
Hearts bursting joy.
Cheeks sore
from statued smiles.

Laughter —
Carrying us through
like a glue
that bonds us.

Laughter —
Centuries old
Inherited from ancestors.
Gifts given by the gods
as the
cure-all medicine.

And still,
even if just temporary,
we harvest it.
Like a second moon
in the month of May,
on the brink
of hot, summer evenings —

To fill us
with its warm magic
and sweetest joys.


Be Daring

The words
on the tip of my tongue
refuse to reveal themselves.
They are reluctant
to be heard in open air.
For the spark,
that may ignite,
could create a wildfire.
Or,
be drowned out
by the reaction
of Sound.

What if, by Stacey Murphy

what if forgiving was easy?
what if
overcoming heartache was as simple as
a long nap,
a float on a pond,
a few tears at sunset?

would I
still cling to the ragged memory,
refuse to sleep,
stay on the shore,
swallow and hold my tears?

would I
believe that pain proves a loyalty
no one demanded
gripping the bars on the window
and ignoring the butterfly
that brushes my arm
as it slips out

through the open doorway?

I Remember . . . by Sue Norvell

The very first thing I can remember is seeing a cardinal sitting on a snowy evergreen branch when I looked out our front living room window. I was between 2 and 3 years old.

I remember the new powder-blue wool coat with the dark blue velveteen collar, bought at Mrs. Peter's shop, and worn for the first time on Easter morning.

I remember loving the Good Humor toasted almond bars best of all.

I remember reading all the Oz books, then all the Nancy Drews.

I remember when I started to wear glasses in fifth grade, and could suddenly see the board in school. Even better, I found that I didn't get carsick any more.

I remember our class assembling boxes of school supplies to be sent to children in Europe after WWII, and receiving carefully written thank you notes in French, or Polish. I remember being fascinated by their different handwriting. All I had ever seen was the Palmer Method.

I remember the struggle each morning when Mom braided my hair before school. I don't know which of us hated it more, me or Mom. Finally, when I was about eight, Dad had had enough, and he marched me off to his barber's shop. "Choppin' Charlie" cut my hair in a most unflattering style for me — a page boy. And I never went back to braids. I don't know who was more relieved: Mom, me, or Dad.

I remember my Lone Ranger secret decoder ring. I mailed off 3 Cheerios box tops and a quarter. The ring arrived, got lost, then found, then lost again. I still think I'll find it when I'm sorting through old bits and bobs.


Editor's Note: Ten years ago I compiled memory lists from dozens of people and published them in pamphlets, calling the whole thing The Memory Project. In the Writing Circle on Tuesday morning,  as Sue looked through one of those pamphlets, she found her own early memories popping up in response. What are YOUR earliest memories? Suggestion: Write them down! Make your own list. Share it with people (or don't).

Grains of Sand, by Nina Miller

No matter how much I vacuum, there are grains of sand on the floor of the car and the trunk. Some mysteriously find their way between the sheets of my bed, but the scratchiness is friendly-evocative.

I wish I were of a religion that believed in cremation.  I like to think of myself becoming grains of sand, washed onto a beach and captured by children
building an elaborate sand castle. I will be the turret, on which they place a flag made of a red, white and blue ice cream wrapper. And eventually a wave will come and invite me to rejoin the water of the ocean, until once more, with the shifting tide, I arrive on the beach.

But my people insist on pine boxes lowered into six-foot holes when the sand runs out of someone's hourglass.  I would rather spend eternity in that glass, being flipped to measure the length of lives, or at least the timing of a 3-minute egg.

I Remember Rain, by Nancy Osborn

I remember rain . . .

dripping from the low pine branches all around our house

pounding on the tin roof of our bedroom in my grandmother's farmhouse

sliding down the sides of the tent — don't touch the fabric!

tapping on the sailboat's deck just above my head where I'm sleeping, in the forward cabin

running off the edges of my first umbrella, a gift from my father, from his visit to Switzerland

drawing the worms from the dirt along our path to school, so we would walk on the curbstones to avoid stepping on them

sweeping across the lagoon in Venice, which we could see from our 4th floor apartment

bringing out the street umbrella sellers in New York, Venice, Barcelona

falling all around us as we sit warm and dry on our upstairs porch

catching me unprepared on a hot, hot day; no umbrella, but who cares?

making the garden smell so lovely at dusk, once the storm is over

during my freshman year of college — my roommates and I walking in the downpours in our blue rubber mackintoshes, imagining we were living in A. A. Milne's world

blowing so hard against the windows of the train in Wales that everything I saw — fields, sheep, mountains — was seen from a watery perspective

turning into ice, then into hail, making such a racket on the day I sat with my mother in the hospital, under a skylight

changing into mist and fog in the autumns, when I lived in Maine

making the streets gleam at night under their street-lamps

and my rain-drenched pants wrapping their clammy folds around my legs . . .

. . . but I don't remember walking in the rain with a single one of my boy friends