In the Waking Hours I Know My Name is Nessa

My name is gone from my mind. I had it before I came here, but now that I need it, it seems to have fallen away -- like a dead leaf from a hibernating tree. 'Tis the season of forgetfulness.

Forgetful-ness. Forgetful Ness. There's something so familiar about that, but I can't recall what it should be.

I'm staring at this stranger who's staring right back at me, expectantly. I mumble something, but even I do not understand what I mean to say. She cocks her head, raises an eyebrow, and leans in as if the inches between us are causing the confusion. 

The cold wind blows. More memories fall away. I can almost see them, just for a few seconds, flitting away, tumbling across my timeline, dissipating into the emptiness. Flames flickering into ash.

Shit.

Well, at least that word is clear in my head. I haven't forgotten language altogether. I try to say it to my curious reflection, but she, too, has evaporated. 

This is worrisome. I lift my hands and stare at my fingers. They seem resolute. I wiggle them. I feel them. I am not fading away like everything else around here. I am solid and strong and loud and bold.

The freezing gusts slice into me like blades of ice. I stand against it. I turn to face it, and even though it takes all my strength to find my voice and bring it into my throat, I howl my name into the mighty darkness. 

The sound brings light and the light brings color and the color ripples through the memories, through the leaves of my life, printing words on every page and singing every song. 

I inhale light. I exhale warmth.

I know who I am now. I am Olivia, Forgetter of Names.

Trip to Mars

 After all that, we still make it to the plane.

We are hurried and exhausted and relieved and looking forward to sitting down in relative comfort. Does anybody else see that this flight is not full?

I guess the others didn't make it through with us.

I'm not sure where we're going. Somebody says Australia. Somebody else says no, it's London. I'm disappointed. I'd rather go somewhere I've never been. Ireland. South Africa. Mars.

Isn't it odd the way people speak more when there are fewer people to receive it? Small talk for small groups. 

I listen to the chatter across seats, across aisles, across rows. These two are married. This one is alone. Those over there are all friends. I'm with some folks from work. The pilot misses his wife.

You wanna know who's on this flight? That guy. He's about five rows back sitting across the aisle from a woman from my office, chatting it up with her one-year-old baby. I can hear the softness in his voice, but I don't look back to see the laughter in his eyes. 

Somebody has texted me, but I can't make out the words.

Ready to launch, someone says. I should strap in, but I can't find my seatbelt. Let me find another seat. Don't take off yet, I'm not safe.

The aisle is cluttered with laundry, packed full so nobody can walk. I have to climb over the seats and eventually I must walk over the laundry, which is putrid and mushy, like a swamp. My bare feet disappear into the piles. It's so difficult to make any progress. I notice there are no snakes.

Hurry up, we need to go, they urge me to find a seat. I move to the back and sit next to the baby. Her mother has disappeared. She is not secured either, so I try to help, and I wonder why she brought this baby, but not the rest of her family. I can't remember the baby's name, so I make one up. Shh, Lily, let's buckle up. She's not a difficult child, but I am not the one she wants. 

That guy says the mother is gone. She fell out the back of the bus.

Did you say bus? We're on a plane. We're going to Mars. 

He gets a text, and I wonder who's texting him right now? We've got other things to worry about. I glance over, but I can't make out the words. I don't think he can either. I realize I've lost my phone. It must be in the other seat. 

Somebody at the front of the bus starts to sing. I know the song. We all sing as we push through a long dark tunnel. The baby cries, but when I turn to soothe her, she has already fallen out the back of the bus. 

Exodus

 Listen, lady, I'd love to help but I don't work here. 

I can tell by her expression she's not going to take that for an answer. She sighs and asks me again to get her a monsaco, all she wants is a simple monsaco.

I don't know what that is, and I'm late for checkout. I'm a guest here, lady, just like you.

Perhaps she is a little touched with dementia? I think it. I don't say it, but her friend pipes up and asks me why I can't just help her. Just go back there (wherever there is) and get this woman a monsaco! (Socialized dementia?) 

I try to say I don't have the authority to go back there. I'm limited to the guest areas, and I'm late. I don't want to be rude, but I haven't packed yet, and checkout is happening now. 

She wants to speak to the manager. The real manager. 

I'm not sure why I'm still standing here, polite, softspoken, and late for checkout. I need to pack, and we all know how it goes when you need to pack, and you're late, and you're probably depending on somebody else to also pack their things, and they aren't even aware that it's time to checkout.

When I get back to the room, I think, man oh man, this is going to take forever. Why would I even bring this much stuff with me to a hotel? Like I had planned to move in and live here forever. There are things in drawers and under the bed, and I'm not sure if this is mine or my roommate's. This stuff is not going to fit in the one suitcase. I might need extra bags.

Or maybe throw some stuff away? Leave this shit behind. I don't need it, and it's holding me back. I gotta get outta this  place. 

I have done all I can do here. Why did I stay this long?

What was I thinking? What was I thinking? What was I thinking?