FridayIII July

I am old

I am old.
I don't know how old.
I know I am old because I look old.
People tell me I am old.
My body's telling me I am old.
My body's tired and aches.
My face feels it's been baked.
Fading away on a flood of years.

I lost my memory recently.
Not because I am old.
Just because along the line it disappeared.

It was about an hour after I'd fallen over.
It was May 26th, warming up to Spring.
I came too on the pavement in a pool of blood.
People stood round.

I knew they were people I knew what they were saying I knew what their gestures meant.
But I didn't know how I'd got there,
What my name was,
I didn't know when I'd learnt what people are and what they say and do,
Or where I'd been, yesterday or 10 years before.
I understood the subtle codes behind the body language but didn't know where I'd learnt them.

I had the full range of social tools but no box to put them in.
I had the full picnic and the full ten bob note but had no idea where the money had come from or who had decided what was in the sandwiches.
To coin a phrase. I knew how to coin phrases but didn't know who'd taught 'em.

I thought I had the better half of memory.
Until I started missing.
And looking.
I didn't know what I was looking for or what I missed.
But it didn't stop me looking.