3 months ago
Tiny details, that may seem insignificant to some, are slowly slipping from my memory. I've always applauded myself on how well I remembered people’s faces and random details no one ever cared about. I’m the girl who pretends she doesn’t remember people, but truthfully, I rarely forget a face.
And numbers. I used to know telephone numbers like it was my job. Thanks to cell phones, knowing someone's number offhand is a thing of the past. But passwords stump me these days. I am embarrassed to admit how many times I've changed my password. And if I'm being completely honest; its most likely the same password.
I noticed it a while ago but brushed it off. While introducing hubs to people I grew up around, I realized I could not remember their names. People I grew up seeing on a daily or weekly basis, names I used to call confidently; their names vanished from my memory bank.
I rushed through the introductions, hoping no one noticed. When hubs asked me later, I told him pathetically, “I forgot their name.”
A year ago, at a family wedding, my mother dragged me around a party, re-introducing me to family members I hadn’t seen in years.
Mom: "You remember Tonton So-So?"
Me: "Of course, I remember Tonton."
And I did know them…then. Maybe she knew something I didn’t. My mother suffered from secret memory lapses herself, something I’ve long noticed but never commented on. I figured growing old was traumatic enough without your daughter marking the dreaded milestones.
While driving through my hometown, a tiny town I left right after college, I could not recall any of my trusted shortcuts. Like most suburban kids, I got my license as soon as I turned sixteen. I quickly became everyone’s chauffeur. As a compromise to using her car, I dropped my mother off at work and her numerous church engagements. Once, the guy I dated long ago drove his rickety car to my house, so I could drive us to the movies.
So here I was in the town I used to know like the back of my hand and I could not remember the shortcut to the local pharmacy. It wasn’t the shortcut that upset me, it was what it represented.