Amnesia is a tricky thing. When I was thirteen, I was involved in a car accident. I had hit my head badly, and when I woke up, I couldn’t things. I remembered some things, but not any personal memories. I did not remember any birthdays. I did not remember having a friend. Memories of social relationships had disappeared. Gone.

Now, I have recreated my memories by the tales my father tells me. I start to wish that I had been there too, but then I stop. I had been there. I just didn’t remember. The stories my father told me become bittersweet, and I think – what if this happens again? Thinking this, I had shot out the door and went to the supermarket. A pad of pink sticky notes popped out at me. I snatch one, then head over to the cashier.

“That’s $1.05,” the cashier said. I paid and was out the door in seconds.

Now my life has been written on a series of sticky notes, just in case it happens again. I am ninety-six now, and I take a pink sticky note. Watch it blow away. Life flies away, now with age.