Subject: ROBERTS' RULES:memories
From: "Shelly Roberts" <[email-masked]>
Date: Sun, 7 Feb 1999 09:17:32 +0000

THE SAD DISAPPEARANCE OF ME.

Did I tell you my father died of Alzheimer's?

Well, not exactly died of it, of course. He died long before his body
gave out. Leaving me with a terminal fear, he ghosted with it years
before, for a long time afterward, showing me by horrible example,
precisely which biology is destiny, when your body can outwit your
mind.

Mother was way too ornery to depart from something so humble as Dad,
and, naturally, had to have her own variety, which  they named 
"Dementia," with a Latin beat, though it looked just as absent-minded.
And though they claimed her particular check came due with a side of
anger, I found a certain mellow buried serendipitously in her forget.
As though she lost the edges of the understanding of what it always
was that made her so mad. Or should I say, "angry" because "mad" was
what she, technically, later became, when she couldn't remember any
more to hate so hard.

This morning I woke from dreaming that I had, after all these years,
magically mastered American Sign Language. As though I was beginning
to invent it. For myself. It's been my good intention for years, to
conquer the lyrical sway and flow of body as substitute for sound,
such beautiful expression. But_

It runs in families. Did I tell you that already? The big A. Genetics
is destiny! Now that's a cry I've already vanquished, coming to such
public terms with my decisions to saddle and ride my orientation like
a tethered pony. High in the saddle, singing "Yippee tie-yie-yay, I'm
a nat-u-ral-homo_" Something I've never found enough space to be
appropriately ashamed of. So I've worked to change what is, hereafter,
 deemed appropriate. And I got to watch it happen. Collecting the
memories in my own lifetime, as cheap souvenirs, for the social
security years when I can't afford movies. 

It runs in families. Did I tell you that before? But Mother didn't
have it. She left us by some demented Latin name, acting as though she
hadn't boiled all those Thursday potatoes into submission in the Mirro
Aluminum that could have been serving us up minds as mashed with the
butter and the salt and the gravy. And everyone did. Every Thursday
night because it was easy. And every Sunday evening, because it was
Chicken. I remember.

Not that I_gosh, I hope I'm not boring you with a story I've told
before. I haven't, have I? 

It's just that in the middle of the work of dreaming, I saw myself
explaining sunrise, opening wide hands. spread like elevator doors
over my face. Arcing to the ends of my arms, then together, a double
water scoop,  lifting heavenward. 

Oh,  I remembered the word for sunrise. "Sunrise." Then I waltzed odd
corridors that dreaming takes you down. And woke with residue of the
terrible terror that destiny is carrying a soft, sad  surprise I
fortunately won't remember at the time.

Oh, I know, I'm way too young. Thanks. And the folks left thirty years
beyond the hash marks I've managed to scratch on the door edge of my
life. 

 But feeling the color of the daybreak from my dream, and seeing the
 inadvertent ballet I am beginning subconsciously to accomplish, I'm
 struck by the irony, and thought I'd share, if I haven't already. 

There is a place in seniority, where memory moves. Some compare it
analgesically to a cranial filing chest in an antiquated office, not
quite yet full, but accessed less, consigned to a storeroom. How you
thumb the catch and pull the drawer is altered, having to walk to the
back of your brain to find the file.  It's worse, at first,
continually walking somewhere, wondering why you went. Different,
although natural, as though that somehow made it better, or were an
excuse. But at least you're not alone in the enterprise. It's a
phenomenon, like needing more lenses to see. Everybody does it. Beauty
queens, and nelly queens. At that point. Natural. Like that makes it
better. Misery loving company, and all. But it does get better, over
time. If that's all that ails you.

So it's hard to tell now, if it's everybody's, or a gift from my
folks. Or something mom stewed up as a late surprise, subconsciously,
in her shiny metal, all-the-rage, super moderne, aluminum boil.

Nah, no, really. It isn't a problem. Just a pantomimic whisper I awoke
with. I, who lives by her wits. A shadow alarm, I'm sure. A future
fear, I dread, will somehow, somewhen, come to take me to its dance. 

Just a dream. A forward reminder, if you will. Now, while images of
daybreaks can still trigger the connected sounds, I saw a helpful
pantomime for sometime future else I hope. And fear. That's all. It's
just_I wanted you to know. To share with you the scare, and beautiful
adaptation while I could still recall. 

A remembrance of things ahead.

Oh, my, was I supposed to be amusing? Sorry. I guess I just forgot.

___________________________
(C) 1999. Shelly Roberts. All rights reserved. A one-time simultaneous
print right is hereby granted to subscribing newspapers; all other
rights, including electronic or digital reproduction are reserved.
Must be reprinted only in its entirety with permission.

Shelly Roberts is an internationally syndicated columnist, journalist
and author of the 1999 Roberts' Rules of Lesbian Living Daily
Calendar. (Spinsters Ink.)