I thought about the poem featured in this post the other day. I thought about it the last time I shared passages with her. I thought about how, even when she struggled to remember people she used to be very close with, all she could remember was where they lived. That, and that they were nice. Maybe she’ll just say that about everyone she can’t remember, being reluctant to say a negative word, or maybe what Maya Angelou said was true:
“I’ve learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”
Maybe even vaguely she can remember that they were kind. And it is the last thing she’ll remember about them.
I am thinking about putting some work into this poem and submitting it for publication. I don’t know why I am telling you, maybe simply to hold myself accountable.