From: "Shelly Roberts" Date: Sun, 7 Feb 1999 09:17:32 +0000 Subject: ROBERTS' RULES:memories 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.)