One Puzzling Afternoon

by Emily Critchley

Except,” here he held up his hand, “except that memory is unreliable. What we remember is not always what we saw.”

Three years is a long time when you’re in your late eighties—just like when you’re a child. It’s all the middle that rushes by too quickly.

I’ve still got all my marbles, even if they’re sometimes in the wrong order.

I wonder if I’ll ever fly on an airplane again. I expect not. You always think there’s so much time to do things, to see places, then you realize there’s hardly any time at all.

Dementia. That was what the woman had said that day. Dementia is what’s stealing my time, my memories. It’s responsible for the fog, the static, the lost words. I’ve tried to fight it but I’m losing.

There will be more bad days, but there will be good ones, too. I am fortunate to still have those. I will hold tightly onto each good day.