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Notes riddled over dirty papers, a sea of thoughts scribbled to ease a mind that was constantly grasping to keep them.

A ghost is a powerful thing, an apparition trying so badly, so desperately to cling back to life. When did he become that ghost? That ghost that I dream of and long to embrace. Was it when he simply started to forget the little things: his keys, his checkbook, the locking of a door, the time of day?

The ghost: his face, wearing a new mask of malnutrition and unspoken sadness. A part of him knew he was unknowing himself. This man whose joy manifested my childhood hopes of catching the Grinch by the fireplace, protecting our precious Christmas tree and presents from a figment of Dr. Seuss’ imagination. Which fireplace would I sit at to protect him now? Now that his memories were stolen, eaten, broken by a shadow hidden where doctors still look for answers.

The power of memory, where you can hide your pain in the idea of what was once there.

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