Oblivion

The woman in this image is old.

Her face shows age.

There is a younger version of her in the background, holding a child’s hand.

Time has passed.

That is clear.

What is not clear is what she still remembers.

I am afraid of forgetting my own life.

I am afraid of not recognizing my daughter.

I am afraid of looking at her face and feeling confusion instead of recognition.

I am afraid of asking the same question again and again.

Memory loss is not poetic.

It is not gentle.

It is not symbolic.

It is practical and frightening.

You forget names first.

Then dates.

Then conversations you had yesterday.

Eventually, you forget parts of yourself.

You forget what you loved.

You forget what you believed.

You forget what you survived.

The woman in this image has lived decades.

She has raised a child.

She has made decisions, sacrifices, mistakes.

All of that exists.

But if the brain changes, access to those experiences can disappear.

That is the fear.

To have a full life and lose the ability to recall it.

To depend on others to explain your own history.

To see worry in your child’s eyes because you no longer know her name.

This poem is about aging.

It is about dementia.

It is about the reality that the body can outlive memory.

I do not want to lose my mind before I lose my breath.

I do not want my daughter to become my caretaker because I cannot remember that I once carried her.

This is not metaphor.

It is a direct statement:

Growing old can mean losing the very memories that prove you lived.