Maybe I should have entitled this post "An Ode to My Cart." As I started thinking about it, I realized it takes out my garbage and the kitty litter to its proper disposal place; it carries my dirty clothes to the laundry room and clean clothes back. I have used it to deliver bags of books to other residents and to bring back groceries from the store. Someone asked where I got my cart, so I shared a story of how we living at the Crown Center often "inherit" what others no longer need. My cart once belonged to Pat Tracy, who died about a year after I moved here. When Barbara Land died, her friend Rebecca cleaned out her apartment. Now someone will inherit Barbara's electric scooter, which once belonged to Evelyn, who died in July.
"I'm at an age where all my secrets are safe. My friends can't remember them either."I can't remember anything these days. I no longer try to multi-task. Unless I write it on my calendar, I forget what I said I'd do, who I'm supposed to get together with, and (of course) that old saw "what did I come in here for?" I'm always trying to locate the tracks of my train of thought.