Dearest Maximillian,

I used to have the best memory.
You could have asked me anything and I could have answered you.

What did you wear as you walked down Tova Street that last night?
What color was the sky in Leningrad on July 17th, 1978?
What coffee shop was it again?
What was his name?

Over many years, my eyes and senses had faithfully engraved every detail of my life into the surface of my brain. It was like a bank vault or an oak chest.
All my memories, so pristine.
All together. So neat and safe.
My autobiography.

But then a flood came.
(You could call it the first stage of Alzheimers.)
It picked up my chest of memories.
And it swept them away.
So effortlessly.

Carried it in its watery embrace out to sea.
The Black Sea, of course.

I looked for so long.
But I couldn't find it.
Things washed up on shore.
Little wisps of seaweed and jellyfish echoes of my memories.
Multicolored ocean glass.
I loved that wreckage.
Those salvaged pieces.
My new life.

So forgive me, Max.
The red has vanished from my hair.
My eyes have been dulled.
My skin is abundant with wrinkles.
I've just grown older.

But I'd still like to tell you my story.
What's left of it.
Of him.