The Borrowed Life of Frederick Fife

by Anna Johnston

rendering his vision as useless as a chocolate teapot.

dotted with nightmares of being chased by seagulls while singing Dolly Parton songs and wearing nothing but a gigantic diaper.

had been born with an extra helping of love in his heart, and he thrived on sharing that love with those around him. The problem was now he didn’t have anywhere to put it. Grief was love with nowhere to go.

Here he was known—even if it was by another name. For so many years he’d taken for granted the significance of being known by another person, until it was all snatched away and he was suddenly a stranger to everyone he met.

Cruelly the body remained, a taunting illusion, making you believe they were right in front of you when in fact they were possessed by an imposter, filled with rage, grief or panic. A torturous show for the audience of loved ones.

What a blessing sleep could be sometimes, a merciful relief from dementia, from pain, from grief. A brief holiday where there were no suitcases full of burdens to carry. In dreams you could forget that you didn’t remember, and remember those who were no longer there.