I did some work years ago at an elderly home; Shady Acres, the guys and I used to call it, even though it wasn’t really named that. We were updating the electrical in parts of the building. There were worse places to work. Some of the old folks were fun to talk to; that was, until we got to the area of the building where they cared for oldsters with memory loss. That part was depressing.

There was a lady there, I couldn’t tell you her name, but every time I walked by her, she would say, “Please help me.” She had this wheelchair that must have been equipped with hyperdrive, because every time I turned around, there she was, wet eyes gazing up. “Please help me.”

What exactly did she want me to do? Get her out of Shady Acres, I guess.

Years following the completion of that job, I was haunted by the old lady’s image, her voice. Often I would lay awake at night, longing for rest for my exhausted, worried mind, thinking, This is how it happens. You think too much, you worry too much, and your brain turns to cold oatmeal. That’s how you end up like the old lady at Shady Acres. “Please help me.”

I’m there now. Not the same Shady Acres, a different one. But don’t feel bad for me. I wouldn’t remember your bad feelings if I wanted to, and besides, you’re the one to be pitied. It didn’t take long for me in this mystery house—could be a month, could be years; it’s all the same to me now—that it occurred to me how the loss of memory can be taken two ways. It’s a curse, or it’s a gift. If it’s a gift, you have to receive it. You have to embrace it. Take it from someone who’s learned this lesson: you’ll be surprised by what you remember, when you allow yourself to forget.