I can remember the metal stroller I was in a walk around the block on a chilly spring day. I can remember picking up our dog Snuffy and putting him in the closet for the day when I was three. I remember my first drink of ginger ale when I was at a birthday party across the street and sneezing from the bubbles of carbonation. I ate malted milk balls and threw up on their couch. I remember so much when I was young. Now I cannot remember what day of the week it is. I can’t remember where I put my purse, my cellphone, or my glasses. I can’t find my shoes. I don’t remember what I did the day before yesterday.

I am going to keep a journal because I kept such fascinating, angst-ridden diaries when I was a young adult. I wrote about what mattered in the world, and what I wanted to become: a ballerina, an artist, or a novelist. I wanted to marry a true prince of a young man who never measured up to the actual young man in my life at the time. My diaries were interesting.

My journal will not be as riveting as my youthful diaries. I will be writing about whether I had cereal or a bagel for breakfast, coffee or tea. I have a cat who is as predictable as my days are now. In the morning she wants me to brush her: first on her right side, then on the left side, her big, her tail. and each cheek left then right. My coffee or tea grows cold during this activity. The news is on the television and I don’t pay attention to it anymore. I forget to take food out of the freezer to thaw for dinner and I idly wonder why my husband and I are wearing the same clothes as we did yesterday.

Perhaps writing a journal will prompt me to at least put the clean laundry away. I could also keep track of how much water I drink in a day. Our children ask me about this all of the time. Do they think my brain is drying out?