There’s something about memory like a stone statue. With chips and holes. There’s something like a museum in memory. There’s everything elusive after you turn from a memory. There’s something about memory like a stone statue. My great grandparents stopped raising Collies. They put stone statues on the stone steps of their farmhouse. As time went on the stone dogs chipped and faded and so did the stairs. And so did memory. Precarious. “There are twenty-seven windows in my house,” she’d say when we’d see her in the nursing home. “Who is this young man?” he’d ask when we went to see him in the nursing home. My short hair confused him. “An artist? It’s good to have a trade.” He had to live in the nursing home because he kept forgetting he had only one leg and would get up out of bed precariously and fall to the floor. Memory is like a stone statue, or maybe like a leg. After a time, the farmhouse fell in from the second floor.
