Alzheimer's and Me
If we are obliged to remember
the things we’ve done in the past,
then why, as I gaze at that ember
which flaming forge has cast,
can I not at all recall November
now only three months passed?
What am I more than my memory?
What am I, then, as it goes,
if I cannot recall the flakes
that linger whenever it snows,
and did it really happen at all?
(What but life’s history knows?)
Not all we say or do, of course,
is ours to call to thought
but every now and every then,
when one is arbitrarily caught,
I’d like to think some memory
boasts a permanent spot;
for what I see behind are few
remaining from what was once alot.
How much do we ever see,
I wonder as I gray,
if all our human memory
is here but for the day!?
