This is a reprint of my story previously published in MJ Magazine.

A nice lady with flowers on her dress gives Ivey a journal, but she’s not sure what to do with it.

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A nice lady with flowers on her dress brought me this journal and said it belongs to me. But I’ve never seen it before. She probably has me confused with somebody else.

I should look inside. Then I can find out who wrote it and give it back.

A blue envelope. Looks like someone has opened and closed it many times. The place where the flap joins the envelope is almost worn through, and it’s waffled in one spot like someone splattered water on it. Won’t hurt to look.

A wedding photo. The groom has peanut-brown hair and a strong jaw. So handsome. He looks tall. Maybe over six feet. Can’t see the color of his eyes, because he’s staring at his bride. She’s stunning. A short woman with a trim figure and blonde hair held back by a spray of tiny white flowers. Sparkling gold chain around her neck. White dress with a long train arranged around her feet in a lacy circle.

They are so young, so happy. Holding hands and looking at one another. The way she’s gazing into his eyes … makes me want to cry. The photo must be very old. It’s yellowed with a little rip in one corner. I’d like to stroke it, but it looks too fragile.

What else do we have?

A pressed spray of flowers. Flat and faded. Probably the one from the bridal portrait. It doesn’t smell like flowers anymore. It doesn’t smell like anything. I’m afraid to handle it. So dry. So delicate. It might crumble. I’ll leave it in the envelope.

Another photo. The same man and woman, a little older, with three young children. A boy and two girls. The boy has curly hair the color of peanuts. … The color of peanuts. Should that mean something? The man and woman look happy and proud. They’re holding hands like they did in the first photo.

Why do I feel like crying? Can’t cry. Don’t want to get the envelope wet. Mustn’t cry. Mustn’t.

I’m scared.

Why are my hands shaking? Why is my heart racing?

Calm down. Calm down.

They’re just pictures. Just pictures.

Look at some of the pages. The person who owns this might have written her name and address somewhere.

The first page has a pencil drawing on it. A giant letter A covered with ivy and daisies and tiny birds with fluttering wings. Underneath the letter is a ribbon with a name on it: Ivey. Detailed artwork. The woman who drew this is talented.

The drawing should make me happy. Birds are happy. Daisies are happy. But I want to cry.

No. Mustn’t cry.

Her name is Ivey. Turn the page and find out more about her.

The handwriting. So familiar. I’ve seen it somewhere before.

Read the words. Read.

“This is my first day with the big A. I’m only forty-two, but I’ve been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. I decided to share my story and record my thoughts. My name is Ivey Williamson.”

Her name is Ivey Williamson.

My God!

My name is Ivey Williamson.

A boy with curly peanut-brown hair like the man in the photo came to visit me today. He said he was … I can’t remember. Why can’t I remember?

What’s this in my lap?

Oh. Yes. A nice lady with flowers on her dress brought me this journal and said it belongs to me.

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