As I grow
older, of course it seems that time speeds because relatively speaking, a year
is progressively a smaller fraction of one’s life. But it isn’t just that. It’s
that the memories of my youthful days seem so immediate. I’m not certain if
this is because I constantly refresh those experiences in my mind through a
retelling—not just to others but to myself—or if it’s the significance that I’ve
attached to them. I wonder if this is what happens to people with Alzheimer’s
as well, that the memories they have so firmly in mind from their youth is
because they have repeated them to themselves so much more frequently. Or if it
is the content that renders these memories more visceral. Because of course,
one is learning at a much faster rate when one is young as well. Obviously.
And yet,
despite those things, I have found that I know less and less. The patterns
which I sought aggressively about people and their behaviors, that I was so
good at identifying, which allowed me coincidentally to become the unofficial
therapist for everyone I know. My insight. This has begun to fail me. I have
begun to realize that despite all the patterns I recognize, which necessarily
sets me apart as being relatively unique, render me quite ordinary as well. The
dream, that one can be unique at twenty is one I am, perhaps, finally
relinquishing. Despite the lack of rites of passage in this culture, there are
simply some things that are inexorable if one chooses a particular path that
includes marriage and children. No matter how unique one images oneself, there
is a sort of mundanity to these stages. An ordinariness that cannot be escaped.
“Rupert,
please come here.”
Now what? What
can she want? “Yes. Coming.”
“Rupert,
please, come here at once. I need you.”
It always
starts this way. But when I finally appear, it is only something small she
needs. A lightbulb stored in the cupboard just above her reach. I walked slowly
towards the kitchen. She stood, leaning against the counter, thin arms folded
tightly against her chest.
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