“Don’t forget her backpack” Donna reminded her daughter.
Adrienne was sulking. Grandma had been living with them for three years. Adrienne and her grandmother had a much better relationship than Adrienne had with her mother. Grandma said that’s just how it was sometimes. Grandma called her sweetie and lovie and now mom was putting her in a home.
Donna had done a lot of research before choosing a memory care facility for her mother. Audrey had been a history professor. Audrey had always had a penchant for dates and times, places and things, her mind worked as an archive catalogue. Until it didn’t.
It wasn’t like someone came in and vandalized the entire archive one night. More like a stealthy thief removed key pieces, details of the Peloponnesian wars vanished into the mists; portions of the renaissance and reformation, gone. Then the thief returned with regularity. When Audrey began to lose words, and descriptions, she enlisted Adrienne’s help.
Adrienne had come up with the backpack idea, and furnished her grandmother with the pack she used in the prior school year. It had lots of pockets and was large enough. Aubrey’s doctors had said that sometimes other senses triggered memories, taste, smell, touch. Adrienne wrapped a pretty perfume bottle that now held only the scent Grandpa Joe had preferred, in an embroidered hankie. Aubrey chose a couple of seashells from the trip where the whole family rented a house in Maine. Baby shoes. The two of them layered the backpack the furthest memories at the bottom, most recent at the top. The outside pockets held touchstones to help Audrey focus on the now, recognize those in front of her.
Adrienne made careful notations. She was her grandmother’s archivist, as the two went through her grandmother’s treasures. At night, before she slept, she would write down, in detail, everything she’d learned from her grandmother that day. The day she met Grandpa Joe. The day her mother was born. The time Donna fell out of the tree and broke her arm. Gimbell the spaniel. Aubrey’s favorite students. Her summers in Italy. Each memory had a token in the backpack.
Hardest was understanding that Audrey understood. The thief grew bolder, sometimes merely scattering a catalog drawer in Audrey’s memory. Adrienne would carefully unpack the backpack; Audrey would point to an object. Adrienne would be the rememberer, would tell Audrey’s stories back to her.
— Lkai
Adrienne was sulking. Grandma had been living with them for three years. Adrienne and her grandmother had a much better relationship than Adrienne had with her mother. Grandma said that’s just how it was sometimes. Grandma called her sweetie and lovie and now mom was putting her in a home.
Donna had done a lot of research before choosing a memory care facility for her mother. Audrey had been a history professor. Audrey had always had a penchant for dates and times, places and things, her mind worked as an archive catalogue. Until it didn’t.
It wasn’t like someone came in and vandalized the entire archive one night. More like a stealthy thief removed key pieces, details of the Peloponnesian wars vanished into the mists; portions of the renaissance and reformation, gone. Then the thief returned with regularity. When Audrey began to lose words, and descriptions, she enlisted Adrienne’s help.
Adrienne had come up with the backpack idea, and furnished her grandmother with the pack she used in the prior school year. It had lots of pockets and was large enough. Aubrey’s doctors had said that sometimes other senses triggered memories, taste, smell, touch. Adrienne wrapped a pretty perfume bottle that now held only the scent Grandpa Joe had preferred, in an embroidered hankie. Aubrey chose a couple of seashells from the trip where the whole family rented a house in Maine. Baby shoes. The two of them layered the backpack the furthest memories at the bottom, most recent at the top. The outside pockets held touchstones to help Audrey focus on the now, recognize those in front of her.
Adrienne made careful notations. She was her grandmother’s archivist, as the two went through her grandmother’s treasures. At night, before she slept, she would write down, in detail, everything she’d learned from her grandmother that day. The day she met Grandpa Joe. The day her mother was born. The time Donna fell out of the tree and broke her arm. Gimbell the spaniel. Aubrey’s favorite students. Her summers in Italy. Each memory had a token in the backpack.
Hardest was understanding that Audrey understood. The thief grew bolder, sometimes merely scattering a catalog drawer in Audrey’s memory. Adrienne would carefully unpack the backpack; Audrey would point to an object. Adrienne would be the rememberer, would tell Audrey’s stories back to her.
— Lkai
Great use of the backpack. Your description of loss as a thief is perfect. Enjoyed the read very much.
ReplyDeleteMy mother-in-law who lived to be almost 101 suffered from dementia during her last few years. She lost so much but I was grateful, she never forgot who I was.
ReplyDeleteI realize there's an error in this: The priamry character is referred to as Aubrey and Audrey. Dyslexic as I am, lower case B and D are often the same letter, Sorry about that. It should be Audrey.
ReplyDeleteIt's so hard to catch your own typos. I have started using a review feature on Word where a voice will read your writing out loud. It helps to know if the flow is good and also to catch a few other errors.
ReplyDeleteSometimes I like to think that the obsessive remembering of all sorts of history facts and other things... is NOT the norm, and the norm is to actually BE more forgetful and more in the moment. Still, humans value mental accomplishments. It's wonderful that the character of Adrienne cares so much and is able to spend so much time with her grandmother. ---Macoff
ReplyDeleteThis is beautiful. Made me cry. You handled the prompt creatively and the title is very fitting. Enjoyed it.
ReplyDelete