Everyday now I make a list of names
I can’t remember; I believe rehearsing these
words will save my memory. I place notes inside
cupboard doors to remind me of basic tasks.
I fear having a social microscope focused on me.
My memory has no home but right here, right now.
It has always been my help-mate ready to fill
every pause, every moment of panic with some
pithy saying or the name of some ancient philosopher.
Now, it has gotten lost; it is wandering somewhere
in the backyard weeds with the melting clocks,
a lost piece in a giant puzzle.
I still have old memories but that quick retort
has become unreliable. Like King Lear,
I must throw myself on the mercy of the gods.
When I tell all of this to my children they ignore me;
old people always do this they say; “they
talk about things you can’t see to cover up
their memory losses.”
Now, I am standing alone in a room full of angry people;
the faces are very familiar but I don’t recognize
anyone; I think I am in a dream but I may be confused about that.
I see strained confusion on the face of my friends
as I answer their questions with a blank look.
I have developed many strategies to cope with this
social disgrace. I often cough or rub my head like
I’ve got a headache; sometimes, I just stop and adjust
my hearing aids.
Somehow I will go on. I’ll use disdainful looks to
change the conversation into something I can remember.
I’ll dress in an old trench coat and mimic Columbo.
I’ll feign condescending wisdom as I rub my chin.
There is nothing worse than a puzzle missing a part.
W. Roger Carlisle is a 75-year-old, semi-retired physician. He currently volunteers and works in a free medical clinic for patients living in poverty. He is on a journey of returning home to better understand himself through poetry. He hopes he is becoming more humble in the process.
Sparks of Calliope 