A person very close to me, who I’ll call ‘Jim’, recently asked about something in our house that had been misplaced. As kindly as possible, he asked if I’d seen it. Both of us know that if something goes astray, it is likely because of me.
Due to my treatments, my memory isn’t as sharp as it ought to be. Occasionally I forget to put lids back on jars, lock the front door, or recall words with more than three syllables. According to my mother, I’m not that much different than her group of lady octogenarians. Although slightly amusing, I'm not quite ready for bifocals and bridge, though I do appreciate a comfortable shoes.
|Me, in my painting clothes|
Today I was doing a little painting around the house. My sound track was Ziggy Stardust, which I haven’t listened to since I wore it out on my turntable. As I turned the walls white, I sang along to the music, and here’s the thing. There are 11 songs on the album, and I know every syllable of lyric. Even the long words like 'suffragette' and 'trasnformation'. Not only that, but I can predict every nuance in David’s lovely voice, the length of each breath between words, and all the guitar riffs (I think they’re called ‘riffs’). I can also hum along to the sax solos, and join David on the exact millisecond that he hollers, ‘Wham Bam, thank you Ma’am!’
So I haven’t lost my memory. I’m just blowing off all the trivial stuff. And rather than being an 80-year old card player player, I am a secret glam rocker with some awesome dance moves. Ziggy played guitar, and I know every beat on the album. I may not know where the hell I put my keys, but I can still sing along note for note with with the coolest guy on the planet.