The Last Marble

But then those marbles started getting lost. They were slippery and round and they rolled under sofas and wall ovens and got stuck between slats of A/C vents. I tried holding on to them, but it was an exercise in futility.

When my oldest was born, it took several months for me to realize that I was quite a few marbles short of a full bag. I walked aimlessly around rooms I had no recollection of entering and found myself rocking the shopping cart at the supermarket, my baby’s cries always ringing in my brain. I gave up my job before they took it away from me.

As the years marched along, the bag of marbles got progressively lighter. Major life-cycle events such as potty training and sleep deficiency contributed significantly to my overall cognitive decline, though it wasn’t that apparent since the greater majority of the company I kept was equally compromised.

I am now down to the very last marble. It’s a shiny purple orb, rather larger than the average marble. It contains within it my last vestiges of self-respect, remaining adult language skills, several recipes handed down for generations, and a few notes of Beethoven’s Für Elise. And I guard this marble with my very life.