Unraveling
Marianne Tran
I vow to never forget her
even though she has already forgotten herself:
sprinkles of holy water before bedtime,
and moist rice cakes
that dissolved with a single touch of my tongue.
So, I don’t mind when she calls me
Margaret, her deceased aunt,
or Cecily, her friend during the war,
or when she doesn’t recognize me at all.
But each mistake is a reminder
that the curse is irreversible,
that there is no cure to piece
her fragmented memory together.
How truly terrifying it is
to be there unaware,
to not understand
that her mind is a motley sewn
of mismatched memories.
She’s unable to recognize the people
she poured her soul out to
or remember how the thick calluses
conquered her feet;
she can’t control
how fabrication replaces honesty,
bitter weeping overshadows giggles,
and the disease advances,
feasts on her mind—
I can’t either.
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