It’s possible, she thinks,
as she turns the water on for her bath
wonders if today is the day she’ll begin –
to forget. Wonders when it began
for her mother, her grandmother.
She climbs into the tub. It’s possible – it will miss her.
She prays it misses her daughters. That merciless
memory thief. She’s seen first hand
how it takes and takes and takes
until all that’s left is one working heart,
locked inside a warm empty body
that’s forgotten how to die.
She lies back in the warm water,
tests her own memory with facts:
name, address, numbers, phone, pin,
her passwords. All still there.
A few words disappeared yesterday.
Most of the time she manages
to ignore this familial specter,
tries to live knowing life is uncertain
for everyone, makes deals –
with God, the devil, herself.
The water cools as she contemplates her future,
the ifs and whats, the when and how.
She thinks she would want to end it early,
but how soon into the forgetting?
She knows she doesn’t want to travel far
down that tunnel losing the past in the dark,
the present in the flit of a butterfly’s wing.
Reminds herself to save her sleeping pills
except – she’ll never remember where they are,
supposes she’ll have forgotten
why she ever wanted them.
She talks to her reflection in the mirror
as she dries herself, reports the news this morning,
about the test that can predict whether –
or not she’s on the forgetting track.
She doesn’t want to know.
Perhaps one day they’ll discover a cure.
In the meantime, she’ll avoid aluminum,
do crossword puzzles, take vitamins, herbs, hormones,
do yoga, acupuncture, laugh often.
Today she decides to write a poem,
says you never know which one will be
my last. Writes: It’s possible, she thinks…
– Diane Buchanan
