A prose poem (or as close as I can get to one), based on the Day 1 prompt at https://www.napowrimo.net/day-one-4/
How do I wither? Let me lose count of the ways, and be satisfied with spending a significant portion of the rest of my days marvelling at whatever parts swell, shrink, wrinkle, weaken, or deteriorate next. “The doctor said, ‘let me know when it gets bad enough, and I’ll set up the surgery.’ Can you believe that?”
How do I wither? I cringe at the thought and where it always leads—but maybe I’ll be lucky enough to lose my memory and have not even the slightest notion that I used to hate sauerkraut as I load up on palletfuls of reuben subs at Costco, dump them into the back of a Chevrolet Citation, and drive to a stranger’s house to watch The 700 Club and feed chunky peanut butter to the flash-frozen fillets of salmon in their freezer. Thus the slow, steady descent into grey will be an entertaining play, if I have to be aware of any of it.
How do I wither? Let me lose count of the ways, and fall asleep at inappropriate moments, lost in another woozy haze, remembering nothing—just sleeping…
(31 March 2022—posted 1 April 2022)
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It’s a beautiful poem about life’s reality. But, I wouldn’t wish for memory loss. It’s too painful, not to know who you are.
A bit of wishful thinking on my part. If I live long enough to be affected by memory loss, I’m hoping there’s a chance it’ll be a more benign form.