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A Fictional Account of the Unremembered

Thump.

I was born sometime in the year of 1940. I don’t remember the date. I only know I am 80 now because that’s what they said.

Thump.

My mama said I would be great. She said I would be a shining star in a midst of darkness.

Thump.

I was a good kid. A good student. I never got in trouble. I always wore my hair up, like mama said I should. I did whatever the teachers told me to. I was friends with a lot of people.

Thump.

I went to college at some college in California. I don’t really remember the name. It wasn’t important.

Thump.

I got a job in California. I think it was something to do with science. Or health. Or writing. No one really cared, though. I made a few friends at work, but we didn’t talk outside of it. I was merely a stone in a middle of stream, where water flowed around me.

Thump.

I got married one day to a man that I loved. I think he loved me. I’m not very sure, though, since he left the next year. After that, I became one that flowed with the river, towards the waterfall.

Thump.

I retired when I hit 75 years old. I think I could have worked more, but I was tired. Like I am now.

Thump.

My parents died that year too. They were the only ones who cared about me.

Thump.

I don’t remember my name. But no one in this packed room remembers their name. We’re part of the nameless. People don’t remember us. We’re nothing.

Thump.

I think I’m going to die soon. No one will care though. Anyone outside of my friends and parents don’t know my name. They only know me as The Woman Who Died After a Long Year of Living and The Woman Who Lived in a House Like a Lot of People.

Thump.

I’m kind of tired. I think if I try, I can remember my name. But I remember Oprah’s name. I remember Taylor Swift’s name. I remember Kennedy’s name. Why can’t I remember my name?

Thump.

My heartbeat is slowing, I think. The people around me seem gray. I think we all look the same. I’m trying to remember my name. No one around me remembers my name. I don’t remember theirs.

Thump.

I think my name was Deborah. I think… it was Deborah. But that’s all I remember. I don’t know. Maybe it’s not. But I wish I got to meet Oprah. Even though I don’t know my name, I’m sure she would be fine with it. She probably wouldn’t know my name, though.

Thump.

I don’t remember my name anymore. I think I’m going to take a nap. I’m tired.

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