I have a better memory than most.
It’s no more to my credit than the hue
of hair and eyes. I claim it not to boast
but in description. I’ve abetted too,
by writing journals, diaries, and verse
about my days. I want to keep correct
my private history, avoid the curse
nostalgia, and unerringly reflect.

My practice is a lonely one. My friends
appear less motivated to recall
events and moods precisely, less inclined
to work to recollect. They’ve other ends,
I guess – they don’t care what their backgrounds haul.
And anyway, they’ve all lost bits of mind.

This entry was posted in Aging, Cognition, Poetry. Bookmark the permalink.

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