We Spread

by Iain Reid

Some realizations about those closest to us arrive in a flash. Other insights take decades to form.

I’m not left with anger or resentment or pity. It’s an anticlimax—a mourning for my own naive belief.

My body might be giving up on me, but my mind has been less depleted by age. I can still think. I know what day of the week it is, the season. I can converse with strangers while standing in line at the store if need be. I’m grateful for the compromise. That’s what has always worried me most. Cognitive decline. Fading memories. Lost days. An uncertain present.

Surrealism by Herbert Read.

Frames of mind aren’t built to last. They aren’t dependable. Even the sturdiest eventually dissolve and disappear.

I haven’t shared a meal with anyone in a very long time. I can’t remember when. All my dinner parties feel from another life. Eating with others, talking, making eye contact, it’s such a fundamental part of being a person. A daily ritual.

“I have to confess,” he says, “I can appreciate art, but I don’t always trust myself that I’m getting from it what the artist has intended.”

But what would the work mean if it was endless? What would a relationship mean if it kept going forever? What would a day be if it didn’t end?

“I suppose living as we do, it makes the current moment the most important. Each one, until the next.” “Does it scare you?” I ask. “What?” “Living moment to moment. Not being able to remember.” “Yes,” he says. “It does.” “Me, too,” I say.

Tant de choses à laisser aller.