She has lost her memory.
The story of her amazing life and career is
lost to her
but not to those of us who knew her Story,
the good and the bad,
the times she triumphed and
the times she hoped to forget that were
is all she says now.
I was reading to her the manuscript of Training Two before going to print. She always had a good ear for complication and 'the obtuse,' and reading aloud is the best version of Editor that I know.
If it's clumsy to say, it's clumsy to read.
That comes from my mom, who was a gifted professional communicator
As I read to her the manuscript, she was joyful.
Rapt even. And would immediately ask,
"Oh! What happened next!!"
I'd sit for a moment and smile with her.
She was gleeful in her curiosity,
(which was a relief; there's no hiding
emotions these days, for either of us).
As I sat with her, smiling at her delight in the story,
I'd remember that she was with me, part of my life, part of the daily life of my girls and pups and the busy-ness and ups and downs of those years.
Her quips are even in the book...
But to her this is a new story.
Never before experienced.
She wondered how it all turned out...
Is this why we write memoir?
To capture times that grow dim and foggy,
whether in our own experience or in others,
to capture moments that speed over the horizon,
so lost to us now?