A message just in from my brain. “What’s all this left hemisphere, right hemisphere business?” it wants to know. “Who’s cookin’ up all that shuck and jive?” Then it breaks out in song and laughs itself silly.
I’ve grown fond of my brain. I can always count on it in a pinch. It comes up with classy moves and brilliant escape options. I think it appreciates me because I give it free rein. It’s my heart’s lover.
Recently I expressed concern to my brain about the Alzheimer’s business. My atrociously bad memory is getting worse. Past events of no small importance have vanished, and people look at me strangely and say, “You don’t remember that?”
“It’s no biggie,” says my brain. “Don’t lose any sleep over it. Trust me. Why do you want to hang on to all that crap anyway?”
I suppose it’s right, but sometimes I catch my brain drifting in mental embryonic fluid, and there’s a sadness about it, as if it’s wavering under the relentless stress of protecting me.