Mary B. Hansen

When I was a child, my grandparents had these two magnets, among others, on their refrigerator door. For whatever reason, I was drawn to them and always looked for them when I came over to their house, like a touchstone. I particularly liked the one with the red nail polish. I maybe even coveted it a little.

When I was older, I learned the concept of tying a string around your finger to help you remember something. I think I even tried it once, but the string was annoying and I can’t remember if it worked. What I do remember is being in their kitchen anticipating eating the cookies my grandmother just made or the leftover Mac and Cheese. She always asked, “What can I get you?” She showed her love with food. 

My grandmother had a memory like a steel trap, recalling dates for small life events long forgotten by most. If there was a question about when something happened, she would be able to pull up the year quickly and with authority. She was always right. Until she wasn’t.

As she aged into her late eighties, she lost her steel trap memory and became confused. Not even a string tied around her finger would help her as she was lost in her own mind. For me, that was the most heartbreaking part of her getting older; she couldn’t remember what made her, her.

But I won’t forget who she was, and I have the magnets to remind me.