Beulah.

     The lawyer and I went to her home together, once we were able to sleuth out where she lived. Her belongings -- as well as most of her deceased sisters', apparently -- filled the place up. Nothing had been thrown away. Mountains of stuff, piled high in her tiny hut of a home. This was during a heat wave, and, before going on her fateful walk, Beulah had turned on her oven (HIGH) to cook something and then, of course, forgotten about it. Her house had been roasting for who knows how long, and smelled alarmingly of charred pine. We asked the fire department to come reassure us it wasn't about to spontaneously combust. I was then left there alone. I'll never forget slowly sorting through the towers of belongings in that tiny inferno. The house didn't cool off for two days. I had to stagger out every twenty minutes for air.      

     After going through the entire collection (and discovering some amazing treasures), I wanted to meet Beulah for myself. The lawyer and caretaker both told me it was a waste of time -- "She has no memory,"  they told me.  I assured them I realized that -- I just wanted to see her in person.

     She is brown and ancient, with a thin tangle of sparse silver hair. Her face is wonderful -- with as many tiny lines as a city road map. Her lower forehead runs like a heavy coil across her eyes. It is obvious her life has not been easy. And yet Beulah's face is undeniably full of light and joy now. She has no worries or baggage at all. She isn't even concerned about her lack of memory -- because she doesn't remember ever having one. Or not having one. Or even what memory is.     

     I was fascinated. I guess I really didn't realize the total truth of the matter: she has no memory. She remembers how to eat. And walk. And dress. So, I wonder, do these things go in the Knowledge part of the brain, rather than Memory? She doesn't remember she likes strawberries. She remembers to pinch the stems off, though. She doesn't remember their name -- but she seems to recognize the word when it is told to her. Or pretends to.

     It became clear that the only dark moments in Beulah's life now are when curious people (like me) ask her questions What's your name? When did you get here? How did you get here? Where were you born? Do you have family? She didn't know, didn't remember, and doesn't miss what she never had. I ended up just sitting and patting her hand. She likes to watch TV. She doesn't read -- she knows how, but nothing currently published really interests her. She likes being happy.

     And yet -- we are our memories. . . aren't we? Aren't we essentially made and molded by how we've experienced and retained from the world? If our experiences and memories vanish -- what is left of us? Who are you without your story? I don't know about you (yes, I do), but I have several memories I'd just as soon... release. I am blessed and burdened with a remarkable facility for retention. I have wished I weren't, from time to time. But if the choices are to keep all my memories, or none -- I believe I would pick All. Yes. Definitely.

     Still: My last image of Beulah was from a doorway of the community room. She was gazing at the television, utterly transfixed. A cable cooking show. There was a pot boiling, and lots of steam clouding up, and the chef was stirring madly and leaping around, chattering.

     Beulah, her hands and fingers twitching to help with the cooking , followed all the action as if it were a ballet. Eyes shining. Mouth slightly open. No one who saw her then could have any doubt at all. . .

She was having the best time of her life.

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