Your memory once excellent, is now faulty.
Checking your little shoulder bag, you count
the things in it: your I.D., your reading glasses,
a notebook and pen. They are all there. Your
coat? You are wearing it. You smile. When
you went to the toilet, you hung your coat,
your shoulder bag and your sun glasses
on a hook, then nearly forgot them. Do you
have your cane? Yes. When this all began,
you lost it and your gloves and never found them.
Walking slowly, you head toward your bus stop.
Will it be the right one? Getting there, you heave
a sign of relief. You are where the Japan Hokkaido
Bus stops. The next bus is ten minutes away.
Will you get off the bus at the right stop? When
it crests the river bridge and starts down, you
heave a sign of relief. At the traffic light you see
the 7-11 store, and next to it, your building.
You are almost home. Stepping down from the bus,
you turn right, then left at the corner, and left again
to your building’s front door. Climbing to your
floor, you look for your number and insert the key
in the lock. Thankfully it turns, and lets you in.
You are home.
What I write 