In the course of the past week of hunting for all of my nice shirts, I found a small black poncho I bought years ago from J.Jill. I wore it possibly once before it vanished. Turned out, it was underneath something else on a shelf in the closet. Black, so it pretty much vanished into the shadows. It’s back! Yay!
I also found all the clothing I was missing. Apparently, when we came back from Connecticut, I didn’t finish unpacking my bag. It has been sitting about four feet from this bed. Neatly packed. I know my blouses are in it — I looked — and for all I know, my green earrings are there, too.
The bad part? How in the world did I forget to unpack? I have to step over that bag every time I go to the bathroom.
Everyone tells me it isn’t really senility, even though I personally feel like I’m slipping a few cogs. I worry me. I used to be able to remember all kinds of stuff. Details of software and telephone numbers. Addresses and the names and derivations of antiques. These days, I’m lucky if I remember the name of the doctor I’m seeing today.
The good news? Eventually, everything comes back. The thing I couldn’t remember yesterday will pop up tomorrow, bright and shiny. Like my newly recovered poncho. It has been waiting for me for at least two years. In the closet. Neatly folded. Tonight, I got to wear it as if I had just bought it all over again.
Forgetting comes with the option of remembering stuff. As if it was new. Again.
That’s good, right?