Memory is a mercurial scarf she wears loosely about the neck. Runs her fingers over the folds of thin fabric. Yet it is strong, seems impenetrable. Each thread a moment in time. She knows the scarf will tear the day she dies. Like the curtain of the temple in the violent earthquake of her body shutting down. Her face contorting and gasping like an alien on the wrong planet. She wears it loosely for she knows it could easily choke her. Memory is not to be clutched tightly. One should always have a fear of losing it to a strong wind. Only grasp it in the storms, the gusts. Only take it with both hands in the most desperate of hours when one fears it could be lost forever. Otherwise, drape it over a shoulder, hang it over the neck. It needs space and air. And that’s all she wanted…so many years ago.