REMEMBERING THE DAYS OF OLD

PHOTO PROMPT © Rochelle Wisoff-Fields

My daughter is gone. I sit at this peaceful place she made for herself and wish she’d come home. I miss her so much. John tells me again that the woman standing in the doorway is my daughter, and that he is my son.

Oh, John, you know our son is just a baby. And who is this woman who has taken over my kitchen? My home? My husband?

I listen to the two of them downstairs. I hear them talking, laughing, watching television together.

They can’t fool me. I know who my my own daughter is.

And she’s gone.

This week’s writing prompt is such a pleasant picture. And yet something compelled me to explore, not the way we lose memory, but the gradual way we begin to lose our own lives. The way our past can seem like soft water, slipping through our fingers when we try to cup and hold it. How fiercely we fight to keep the past we remember, and how the very act of trying seems to let it slip away.

If you’d like to join the fun, go check out the prompt for Friday Fictioneers at Rochelle Wisoff-Fields‘ blog. Write your own story, post it online, then click on the frog and add your story so we can all read it. I’ll see you there!

26 thoughts on “REMEMBERING THE DAYS OF OLD

  1. What a sad story. You’ve conveyed the way in which our memory tries to make sense of things – and can become totally convinced of things that aren’t true. More importantly, you’ve shown the pain that can accompany a failing memory, the sadness and the difficulties.

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      • It’s hard to deal with, but sometimes people don’t realize it’s hard for them too. I was visiting my mother in the nursing home, sitting in the dining room, and the aide brought in a man to visit another woman. The aide brightly asked the woman, “Do you know who this is?” The woman tried but didn’t recognize him (it was her son). I remember that while it was tough on the man, my heart bled for the mortification and anguish on the woman’s face. She knew she was hurting him but didn’t know why.

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    • Thanks, laurie. It’s hard to deal with, but sometimes people don’t realize it’s hard for them too. I was visiting my mother in the nursing home, sitting in the dining room, and the aide brought in a man to visit another woman. The aide brightly asked the woman, “Do you know who this is?” The woman tried but didn’t recognize him (it was her son). I remember that while it was tough on the man, my heart bled for the mortification and anguish on the woman’s face. She knew she was hurting him but didn’t know why.

      Like

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