i think of the lost every day, but in a bleary, inundated way. i need specifics. when people tell me and remind me i can try to find the lost things, the connections that are vital, the specific ones that save may save us from being continually overwhelmed by the sad business of the human world. 
for trudy, who has lost her memory. and for r. who is staying with her and helping her to stay, to remind her continually, to be her continuity, her connection. i think of the memories a mother transmits to her children, all the memories stored in the cells, that come unspoken with the ones hid, and the ones carefully or randomly transferred. and how that child later might be the repository of the mother memory. what goes on, when memory gets lost. we have to remember for one another. that's the hardest part of losing memory, we can't remember for another. we can help one stay in place, to function in the endless now. but what is lost we must remember, the connection to things of the world that matter. this we can do. be connected to that which is lost. to stay connected, to be here, to not be lost, to not be the memory of the thing that's lost. to be the feeling in the place of memory.
i hope that trudy can keep her journal. she might see what she forgot she had written, and follow the tenuous tracks of her lost words. as i see it, before my memory is lost, this journal is my memory, each moment and image connected to the next, and when there is space, lacunae, the empty space is connects like a silence in music. the silence where the music is heard.