Forgetting

If I have had a stroke, or if I have developed plaques and tangles, the area of my brain that holds favorite flower names is the site of the problem.  For two weeks I was unable to remember a favorite blue-flowered plant.  I love the color of this flower, an ultramarine blue shading into purple.  I pass this foot-high creeping plant every time I walk to my studio.  I asked a friend who is a master gardener if she could help me find the name of this plant.  She called back later in the week and asked “Vinca?

“No,” I said.

“Plumbago?”

“YES!  Leadwort!” I crowed.  “Thank you!”

It seems odd to forget Plumbago for so long, then remember its common name when prompted.

Next I forgot another small blue flower that I love.  I kept trying to call it a Morning glory; each time I would picture a real Morning glory and know my plant was not that.  I have a bunch of seedlings of this mystery plant; I recently planted them after keeping the seeds for two years.  Half a week after forgetting its name, the name Forget-me-not popped into brain.  How could anyone forget the name of a plant named Forget-me-not?

The third troublesome plant had a yellow flower.  In the plant’s third year I picked its first bloom ever for a bouquet for an old friend.  The minute I cut the flower I forgot its name.  As I walked into my friend’s room two hours later, I said, “Look! Today is the first time the St. John’s wort has bloomed, and this is its first blossom.”  Two hours forgetting is better than two weeks, but it's too long to call the forgetting a word-finding problem.

People my age often have word-finding difficulty.  I have momentary word-finding lapses from time to time.  I find the lost word quickly.  When Ox forgets a word it pops out of my mouth before his mouth has a chance to find a synonym.  I am more tactful with other friends.  These flower names, however, are a different order of forgetting.

When Catherine was a child I said to her with great warmth, “Goodnight, Wag.”  Wag was our dog and Catherine was indignant that I got neither the name, the species, nor the sex right.  Remembering this has given me comfort for years.  If I could have such a gross lapse in my 40s, and was still kicking and sentient, then maybe I was not yet a candidate for the secure ward.  I’m kicking and sentient now, but I’m starting to worry.

The Pond is Never the Same

We were later than usual and the twilight was gray and heavy.   A white cloud rested on the mountain tops and wisps of it washed down the draws outlining contours we don’t usually see.  It had rained earlier; the streams gushed in their courses and our feet squished in the grass.

As we started across the dam a red-winged black bird claimed his nest in the cattails. Swifts darted here and there following the jagged paths of insects.  A lone fisherman looked silently over the pond, his rod untouched on the ground under his canvas chair.  The storm waters had made the olive green pond muddy.  

Ox pointed to the wake of a muskrat.  The muskrat followed us close to shore.  When he caught up halfway across the dam, he dove straight down.  We didn’t see him surface again.  The only sounds were the rushing water, the black bird’s hoarse caw, the frogs.  Mist quieted everything else.

We stepped onto the path around the pond.  The park people had bulldozed the path and laid gravel.  The path was wider, gravelly and muddy – not as wild as it was last week.  The improved path felt unnatural.  Heavy drops of water fell from leaves of the bushes and trees.  

We looked at the mountain from a clearing on the path, the cloud hid its top.  By the time we came around into the open we saw that the cloud had enveloped the mountain.  The fisherman still sat by the pond.  It was almost dark.

We went home.