[ WP ] The narrator has short term memory loss

They ’ re all looking at me, expectantly. Like a gaggle of aunts and grandmas waiting for a child to spell out a new word. Come on, you can do it, their desperate expressions convey. But I ’ m not a child. I ’ m a middle aged man. These people are my friends, my family. And yet they hover around me, anticipation in their eyes. And concern. 
 
 “ Do you remember, Drew? Do you remember who came to visit this morning? ” she asks again. A question so simple, and yet all the weight of the world seems to be hanging on it. 
 
 I search my brain. I remember someone was here. Maybe. 
 
 “ Was it Gary? ” I answer, the uncertainty obvious in my voice. 
 
 That look of worried disappointment that comes over their faces again. I hate it almost as much as not being able to remember who came to visit this morning. 
 
 It ’ s been a month since I got out of the hospital, most of which I don ’ t remember at all, and certainly not the accident itself. I try to be grateful. I could be paralyzed. My brain injuries could be much worse. I could be dead. But I feel useless. I feel frustrated. I feel babied. Every day it ’ s the same. My wife tests me relentlessly with questions about what we ’ ve done, where we ’ ve gone, who we ’ ve seen. I have to keep a book to remember I ’ ve taken my medications, but even then, constantly: Did I write in the book? What have I eaten? How long ago was that? 
 
 A snippet of voice flits by in my head. A woman ’ s voice. 
 
 “ It was Sarah. Sarah came to visit us this morning. I remember now. ” 
 
 Reprieve, for now. 

