After I Fall Down the Stairs at the Golden Temple, by Mary Oliver
For a while I could not remember some word
I was in need of,
and I was bereaved and said: where are you,
There’s so much going on in this poem – I was first struck by it because of the endearment of beloved friend in reference to a word. I do so love words.
But it is the idea that the word is forgotten that I am struck by more.
It’s hard to watch as someone becomes a regular patron of forgetting.
Forgetting a question just asked.
Forgetting what they ate for dinner.
Forgetting a comment just made. Again. Again. Again.
And on the flip side, those around the person need to be able to forget dealing with the forgetting. Not for days or weeks. But for a while.
We need to be able to go sing at the top of our lungs in a karaoke room the size of a phone booth. (Best five dollars and twenty five cents ever spent. Just sayin’.)
The effect of spending time with someone who is forgetting makes you mindful – to be present. To appreciate life for what it is, in this remembered now.