Someone close to me is witnessing the connections in his parent's mind slowly disintegrate, fragments of her past crowding into her present and jumbling together to create Dali-esque thoughts. Words come out unedited, unintended stream of consciousness. On some days his mother is a little girl again in a school house or she might be a passenger on a train, wondering at which stop she should disembark; some days her sisters are alive and her husband, too. And then on some days, rarer and rarer now, she is just an old woman who has finished her breakfast and is wondering what she should do for the rest of the day.
Memory and the workings of the human mind have been on my...mind a lot lately. I try to keep my brain sharp. I struggle with crossword puzzles, read books copiously; I exercise and avoid the vacuity of television. And I write. That’s one way to attempt to assure that memories are stored and are filed in their correct order in time. The trouble may prove to be in remembering where I’ve put what I’ve written or whether I remember that I’ve written anything at all.