Other than that, everything's fine

a dispatch from bewilderness

I am staring at the blinking thing on the screen.  Then at the thing you push with your hand.  I curse at the nameless blinking thing, then recall its name.  A cursor.  Of course. 

The tester says boat, car, hammer and asks me to repeat what I heard. I say hammer.

The cognitive architecture —  otherwise known as the history with which I made sense of the world — blew apart. Other than that, everything’s fine.

Next the tester asks if I can count backwards.

I ask, “Why would I count backwards?”

That is the wrong answer.

The tester starts to get annoyed. But then she remembers it’s almost Thanksgiving.

Thanksgiving may include: Bad traffic; too much to drink; too little to drink; overcooked turkey; undercooked turkey and a few other things whose names I can’t recall at this red-hot minute, as my friend Sunny would say. I call her Sun. I love calling her Sun.

The tester points to a book and asks me if I know what it is called and I say book. Then she points to a phone and asks if I know what it is called, and I say phone. Sometimes I know. Sometimes I don’t.

It’s sort of like my hearing aid goes on and off, except I don’t have a hearing aid. My brain goes on and off instead. There are holes in any landscape.  Gaps where words should be.

For lunch today, I have a plate of nothing with a side of nothing because nothing has names. I had the same lunch yesterday. I need words I can’t find to say things I can’t say. But tiny pieces of the past shine briefly through like stars in fog. 

Some people have families. Some have families and holidays. Trees have families and roots. Maybe stars have families. Maybe they are thankful, too.

The tester tells me to say the name of my mother, then to say the name of my father, then to say my address.  The tester points to a few objects close at hand. I am looking out the window. Birds are flying south. I am not flying. Four words seem most important. Love. Home. Thankful. You.