Everyone hoards something.
Pops left Mum. She kept books on his side of the bed to forget him. In time, hardbacks spilled onto the floor of her bedroom. Paperbacks cluttered the house. She had no hope of erasing him from her mind.
My apartment is tidy—an organized kitchen, an orderly bedroom. I sit on the only chair of my spotless den, and pull a dustless photo album onto my lap. On each picture, I trace the faces of my adorable grandchildren. Or maybe they’re my children. I’m not sure.
Alzheimer’s takes my memory. Everyone hoards. I hope to hoard memories.