These days, I feel like a puzzle – a collection of pieces that don’t always seem to fit together, and half of the pieces are missing. I know my name, and most days, I know the names and faces of my children. When I hear music, I remember that I love to play the piano and sing, but I wouldn’t know what to do with my fingers if I tried to play, and I could never remember the words to my favorite songs.

I've heard them utter the word "dementia," and it sounds like a death sentence. I can never remember where I am. I know I am safe; the people around me are kind, and they call me by name like they know me, though I don’t know them. But my room is tiny, and I feel trapped in this space that isn’t mine. I remember my home – a dark green carpet and marble-topped tables that belonged to my mother in the living room, a piano in the corner. But that’s gone now. I know I can’t go back, but I’m not sure why.

I stare at the pictures that decorate my little room. I look at their smiling faces, and the tiniest voice in the back of my head tells me that they love me, but if they loved me, wouldn't they visit me? Wouldn't they take me away from this place? But they don't, and I'm left to wonder if there's anyone left who cares about me, who needs me, who even remembers me.

So, now I wander this tiny space with one short hallway like a lost ghost, unsure of who I am. I eat, I bathe, I take my medication; all of these things tell me that my body is alive. But some days I wonder – if even I have forgotten who I am, am I really alive?

I shape this nearly empty body

And the self within –

Molding, squeezing, pushing, pulling,

Creating the woman I long to be.

The clay is stubborn,

And I don’t have full control;

Family, friends, media, limitations –

Influence and change my shape.

For better? For worse?

I’m not sure I know.

I can only hope that my sculpture

Will be worthy of my pride.

As the wind picks up, I shiver and huddle deeper into my coat. Adam shoves his hands deep into his pockets, and we give each other awkward smiles and commiserate about the cold.

The rest of the youth group has wandered off in groups, leaving us stuck with each other, and I can’t decide how to feel about that. I had always been closer to the upperclassmen in the group, but now that I was a high school senior and they had all graduated, I was left with the few in my class that I wasn’t very close with and the underclassmen that I didn’t know well.

And then there is Adam, who's also a senior. He doesn’t come to youth group activities often, unless his friend Brad drags him along like he did tonight. I feel bad that Brad dragged him out and then left him, so I invite him to walk around with me.

Our youth leaders have decided to take us out to a place called Christmas Village; it’s set up like a miniature town decorated with lights and trees and reindeer. It’s cute, but I’m not sure either me or Adam would have chosen this as an activity had we been asked.

But we make the best of it, trying to get to know each other as we walk around to keep warm.

“So, what are you doing after you graduate?” I ask him.

“I’m going to Pittsburg to get a degree in computer programming,” he tells me. “What about you?”

I crane my neck to look up at him. I’m not a petite girl – average height and a little chubby, but Adam towers over me. I don’t think of him as fat, just big – 6’3” and broad. But he’s soft-spoken, and he seems gentle, like a big teddy bear.

“I’m staying close to home at a small college. I was thinking about getting a degree in creative writing, but the more I think about it, the more I think I should get a practical degree.”

“You want to be a writer?”

“Yeah, I’ve been taking creative writing classes for a couple of years now, and I won a poetry contest a few years ago. I want to write novels, but I should probably have a full-time job in the meantime, because I’m definitely not going to get published right away.”

He shrugs. “You never know. What would you major in if not creative writing?”

“I’m thinking about English and Education, being an English teacher.”

“I could see you as a teacher.”

“Really?” I ask. “I’ve always thought I’d make a bad teacher.”

“Why?”

“I don’t have any patience, especially when I’ve explained something multiple times, and the other person still doesn’t get it. That’s not a great trait for a teacher.”

He shrugs again. “I don’t know. I think you could do it. Kids would probably love you!”

I blush, and then he suggests we get some hot chocolate to warm us up. I agree, and we sip our hot chocolate as we admire the pretty lights and laugh at the silly Christmas scenes. At some point along the way, I notice one of my sneakers has come untied. I look down at my shoe and then at my half-drunk cup of hot chocolate, trying to figure out how to tie my shoe with one hand.

“I can hold that for you,” Adam says. I’m not sure why, but the gesture strikes me as exceedingly sweet. I hand him my cup and kneel to tie my shoe. When I stand, he holds out my cup, waiting patiently for me to take it from him.

Nothing we said that night was particularly romantic or deep or thought-provoking, and though my high school self felt some level of attraction, I never would have dreamed what that night could lead to - that five years later, the two of us would stumble upon each other again after we both had the chance to grow up a little, and eventually fall in love and get married. If you had told me that night that I was talking to my future spouse, I doubt I would have believed you, but all the same, I’m so glad we had that first talk that set the stage for many more conversations to come.

Slowly, cautiously, we emerge from our homes. We can’t be too careful, even under the darkness of the blessed clouds, for they are fickle and will often leave with little warning.

But today, the clouds have looked down favorably upon us and graced us with their shadows for miles around. We gather and rejoice in their kindness, giving thanks for their darkness. If they are particularly pleased with us, they might even bless us with their tears.

Some take advantage of the clouds' blessing and hunt the animals that appear only after the moon has left the sky. Others brave the fields, forests, and rivers we rarely visit, fearing that the darkness will fade before we can return to the comforting dark and cold of our caves.

But not me. I will not insult the clouds by wasting this blessed day with work. As a few precious sky tears kiss my cheeks, I know what I must do. I grab my sister’s hand and leave behind the safety of our cave. We will not need it today; the clouds will be our protection! Hand in hand, we make our way to the clearing, and by the time we reach it, our hair and clothes are damp. We both lift our faces and hands to the sky, welcoming the tears. We lay on our backs in the grass, letting the water touch our bodies all over. When we are thoroughly drenched, we stand up and dance under the shadows of the clouds, laughing and loudly thanking the clouds for their blessing.

The tears don’t last long. As they stop, we lay back down in the grass, feeling their remnants on the ground below us. In my joy, I become careless and fall asleep.

I wake to my sister shaking me, crying my name. Before I even open my eyes, I realize what has happened. As I said, the clouds are fickle. I can see the horrid brightness even through my closed eyelids.

“The clouds are leaving!” my sister shouts. “We must get home!”

I stand, and we stumble our way home. The sun’s light practically blinds us, and my skin feels like it is burning, but I’m determined to reach our cave before the clouds take away their shade completely. We find shadows under the trees and take cover beneath them, which helps. But the sunbeams still find their way through the leaves, and it feels like their harsh shine is drilling a hole into my head.

But I don’t disappoint the clouds this day. We manage to reach our cave and slip inside before the clouds leave us completely.

Some might rage at the clouds for their unfaithfulness, but I choose to praise them for their protection against the light.

I’ve never been afraid of needles, but I still can’t stop the shiver that goes down my spine when the first needle pierces my skin. I’m almost grateful for the blindfold as I feel the needle slide deep into my right arm, a few inches below my elbow. Another swiftly follows, this time just above my knee. Then, another in the back of my hand.

They come, one right after another. I try to squirm away, but my restraints hold me tight. If they had stopped at one, or even five, it would have been bearable, hardly worse than a bad trip to the doctor’s office. But they didn’t stop. They don’t stop. My shoulder, my foot, my neck, over and over again, the needles prick me, diving into oceans of skin and muscle.

Is this what torture feels like? I always imagined the worst part of torture was the pain, but I was wrong; it’s the relentlessness, the utter inescapability.

I wish I knew what I did to deserve this, what I could do to make them stop. But there’s nothing they want from me, not really. I’m nothing more than an oddity to them, a specimen to dissect.

I’m forced to lie on my stomach, and more needles prick the backs of my legs and my upper back. I’m feeling woozy and nauseous, and I’m not sure if it’s from the constant pain or if the needles are injecting me with something.

Finally, I feel the biggest needle so far enter the very middle of my back. I gag as I feel it go in, every muscle in my body tensing up. I gasp a few times, feeling like I’ve had the wind knocked out of me. I can’t pull in enough air. My lungs freeze up, refusing to inflate. As my eyelids grow heavy and close, a voice beside me says, “Interesting, this one lasted longer than the others.”

I lean back into the cushions with my eyes closed, feeling the warm sun on my face. The ceiling fan above me blows a gentle breeze, and a tall glass of lemonade is on the table beside me to keep me cool.

Not for the first time, I’m grateful that we made the choice to screen in our new front porch because I know without those screens, my arms and legs would be covered with mosquito bites by now, but as it is, I have yet to see or feel a bug in my space.

The bay window that looks into our living room site behind me, surrounded by the house's gray stone wall, but I’m facing the quiet street, with only the occasional neighbor walking their dog passing to distract me. Otherwise, it’s quiet, and I can settle in and be inspired by the great outdoors while enjoying all the comforts of indoors.

We had less time than I ever thought possible. I never dreamed that we would be saying goodbye before we turned 40, before our little girl was even five years old. We were still planning, still dreaming, but our time together was cut short, like a song that ends unexpectedly on a sour note that just feels wrong.

But I can still hear your melody. I hear it in our daughter’s laugh, in her conversations with you in her bedtime prayers. I see it when she cuddles up next to the dog and buries her face in his fur, when she puts her little arm around her friend to console him when he cries. I feel it when she throws her arms around my neck and squeezes me tight, when her cheek touches mine and our tears mingle together.

It breaks my heart that we won’t celebrate our tenth wedding anniversary together, that you won’t be here to see our daughter’s graduation or walk her down the aisle. With every part of my being, I miss you. But when I listen closely, I know you’re still with us. Your melody lingers on through the little life that we made together, and I will hold on tightly to those last notes until my last breath.

There’s no such thing as ghosts, I tell myself as I creep through my dark house, my feet barely touching the wood floor.

There’s no such thing as ghosts, I repeat as I stare at the broken, bloody body at the bottom of the steps with the strangely familiar face.

There’s no such thing as ghosts, I chant as I reach out to my husband as he descends the stairs towards the body, though he doesn’t notice me.

There’s no such thing as ghosts, I cry, as my husband passes through my outreached transparent hand. But then, what am I?

“Come on, you have to jump now!” she yells as she pulls me hard towards the edge of the bridge.

As I teeter on the edge, looking down into the rushing water, I think, If only I could see her, maybe I could tell if she’s my guardian angel or just another demon living in my head.

“You’re so much like them,” I hear for the dozenth time. I smile and nod politely, even though all I want to do is scream.

I am nothing like my parents! I want to shout. I am against everything they ever stood for! I am their polar opposite!

Except I’m not. Hard as I try, I can’t escape the things I inherited from them. It’s more than just my mom’s red hair and my dad’s pointed nose. It’s my dad’s temper, and my mom’s tendency to reach for a drink the minute things get a little challenging. It’s my dad’s need to be right and my mom’s refusal to acknowledge when there’s a problem. These are the characteristics that I’ve defined them by, and these are the traits that I wrestle with every day.

The outside world never saw any of it, but I did. Growing up, I had to listen as my dad screamed at us; I had to watch as my mom reached for that bottle. I felt the impacts of my dad’s stubbornness and my mom’s denial. They’ve passed on their traits to me, but they’ve also shown me how those traits can hurt others. And I plan to do everything I can to be different.

I can’t eliminate my temper, but I can go to therapy and learn how to deal with anger in healthy ways. I can never be free from the temptation to take a drink when things get rough, but I can learn to face my problems head-on and ask for help when it’s more than I can handle.

And I can surround myself with people who make me better.

I loved my parents. I still do, but now I have people in my life who have shown me how to treat the people I love better.

I may never be able to leave behind the imprints my parents have on me, but maybe, if I learn from others, the things I inherited from my parents will just be small pieces within the patchwork of my life – integral to who I am, but no more important or noticeable than any other. And maybe even less so.