Summary

An individual with memory loss awaits the return of their beloved Maria, following a daily routine of reading and rewriting a note left by her, while struggling with the concept of time and memory.

Abstract

The narrative describes a person who starts their day by reading a note from Maria, indicating she has gone to the store and will return soon. The protagonist, who uses a hospital-type bed, contemplates the nature of time and memory while searching for a clock in a house that feels familiar yet lacks timepieces. They ponder the significance of memories, the possibility of remembering through awareness, and the potential of one memory unlocking all others. As afternoon turns to evening without Maria's return, the individual prepares for the next day by writing a note identical to the one they received, suggesting a cycle of waiting and routine.

Opinions

The protagonist reflects on the protective or restraining nature of their hospital-type bed, though they don't recall it serving either purpose.
There is a sense of serenity or resignation in the protagonist's acceptance of their condition, as they are not disturbed by their inability to remember but rather curious.
The protagonist equates awareness with remembering, questioning the reality of their existence and the events that have or have not occurred.
They consider the power of a single memory to unlock all others, indicating a belief in the interconnectedness of memories.
The protagonist seems to find solace in routine, replicating Maria's note as a means of

The Note

It is morning, again.

I look out my window to see the last of the autumn leaves pirouette to the ground.

I am in my bed, in my bedroom, in my house.

My bed is one of those hospital-type beds with adjustable rails on each side, designed, I believe, to either protect me or restrain me. I don’t remember the bed being used for either purpose.

I sit up and swing my legs over the side of my bed and read the note, written in careful block letters. The note is taped to the lampshade on my lamp on my nightstand.

GONE TO THE STORE. BACK SOON.

- ALL MY LOVE, M

Maria.

My precious and beloved Maria.

I turn the lamp on. The backlight lends Maria’s note a celestial glow.

BACK SOON.

I look for my watch or a clock. No watch or clock.

I dress and go into my living room, holding Maria’s note, and look for time. I move well, comfortably, but no clock. No clock in the kitchen, either. The stove and the microwave blink 12:00 12:00 12:00 over and over in eternal silence. BACK SOON. I don’t know how long I look for some sort of timepiece. If I had a timepiece, I would be able to tell you, assuming I noted the beginning of my search and could remember that time. But time has collapsed. I cannot know tomorrow, for tomorrow is only wishes. And I cannot remember yesterday. There is only the wilderness of now, barren except for Maria, my precious Maria.

Existence has stalled.

I return to the living room and sit on my couch. My couch is comfortable and familiar. Not familiar because I remember it, but rather familiar in the way that I’m aware of it. Is awareness the same as remembering? I am aware that I no longer remember things. But what if I can’t remember which things I can’t remember? What then? I’m not disturbed by this line of questioning, just curious. I believe I’ve pondered this before.

Sometimes I think if I could remember just one thing, then I could remember everything. Or maybe if I can’t remember, those things didn’t happen. Or I wish they hadn’t happened.

Memories echo; they must. Memories of the living and all they were and all they might be. Memories that awaken the dead.

If I had memories and wrote my life in one sentence, would it be that I intended no harm?

Does forgetting deliver me to a benevolent oblivion?

❖

It is late afternoon, again.

The light recedes; the days are shorter now.

I am on my couch, in my living room, in my house.

Maria has not returned.

I place her note in the wicker basket beneath my coffee table and walk to my bedroom. I move well, comfortably.

I sit on the edge of my bed. It’s one of those hospital-type beds with adjustable rails on each side, designed, I believe, to either protect me or restrain me. I don’t remember the bed being used for either purpose.

I open the drawer of my nightstand next to my bed and retrieve my notepad and my pen, and in carefully blocked letters I write my tomorrow.

GONE TO THE STORE, BACK SOON.

- ALL MY LOVE, M

I tape the note to the lampshade, and sleep.