Margen
My wife lost her memory in an accident. The doctors said it would not come back.
So I invented a ritual. Every morning, when she wakes, I sit on the edge of her bed and tell her our story: how we met under the canopy of a closed cinema, how we danced without music in the kitchen, how she promised me we would grow old arguing about nothing.
She listens, she smiles, and every day she falls in love again with a past she does not remember. It is the closest thing to happiness I have left.
This morning, for the first time, she interrupted me halfway through. She looked at me with a clarity I had not seen in her for years.
"That story is beautiful," she said. "But that woman is not me. You buried that woman three years ago. You brought me home from the hospital mistaking me for her."
And I, who do not want to remember either, went on telling the story from the beginning.