Lately I have had discussions with my mother
about things that happened in the distant past.
Things from my youth,
that I dredge up
to lay out and present
as amusements
for others.

I ask for verification
about events as I saw them
and she has no idea what I’m talking about.

This doesn’t surprise me overmuch.
Events as I see them feature too much of me centrally:
“So there I was, driving the minivan -”
“At six years old? I don’t think minivans were in production yet,
and we certainly never owned one.”
“But that was the spirit of the story, Mo’om…”
So I figure my imagination took me places in those early memories
that it had no right to place me.

Of course, as time beats the skin of old age
(or something equally dire)
Mom’s memories may be fading on their own.
When she doesn’t remember events,
they may have occurred,
it’s just that she can’t recollect them.

And there are no other witnesses to verify stories for us.
How lonely.