The Soul at Three Lasts to a Hundred

Lately my forgetfulness is severe.

I’m sure I put it right here, I convince myself.
The smartphone,

the keys,

the glasses—

even though their everyday spot is fixed, they aren’t there.

My special skill—being someone poor at tidying up by nature—is that I memorize in my head, with an animal’s instinct, where and what and how things are among the piled-up books and the clutter of odds and ends. When my family, meaning well, neatly tidies that place, my memory up to then is destroyed, and, far from being grateful, honestly, I fume.

But a little forgetfulness of age has begun to set in, too, and thinking that if I stay this way my run-down room will never get cleaned up and I’ll be a nuisance to the whole family, I bought a tabletop storage box to hold the important things I use daily.

The relief of knowing my important things are here,

a comfortable life continued for a while,

but with the passing of time,

I forgot even to put my important things into this box, and my “I’m sure it’s right here” life goes on to this day.