The hardest thing
By Binnie Ravitch
My brain. My words. I don’t know where they’ve flown to. They are meant to be right here, close at hand, instantly retrievable, emerging intuitively, instinctively, before I even know I think them. My weapons and my shield, my offering and my armor, the observable evidence of my worthwhile brain (because long ago I lost the proof, the Princeton printed label — English 782; Advanced Math 800 — that was my documentation of brain worth).
Oh, the words are still around. When I bump into them I recognize them, not realizing I can no longer retrieve them. Recognition is still fine … so far. Recall is going quickly.
My body. My height. Early on in school, I am the only one who can reach the top row of cubbyholes. At nap time I get my blanket and those of the other four top-row kids who are too short to reach. I am so tall. I am a big girl. I am a helper.
In adulthood, at 5 feet, 8¾ inches, I make my appearance, both visibly and happily, in the back rows of group pictures, standing, smiling, blocking no one …
Only something’s happened. I’m not now. 5 feet, 3¾ inches. Five inches — evaporated.
My words, my inches, shrinking into elder oblivion. The hardest thing is disappearing … while I’m sort of still here.