Flight Of Memories

I sit across from my great grandmother, noticing curved phalanges under her translucent skin, skin thinner than the lacy down of a dying bird. She asks the same questions barely a minute apart. I learn how my grandparents met for the third time today. I realize she is losing her memory. Birds of all kinds fly away from my great grandmother in swirling currents. They are her memories grown feathers. I wonder about memories. How much of a person’s personality do they make up? Without memories what would you be? I want to explore the different aspects of memory using birds as a metaphor for the memories people collect over their lifetime. Brightly colored birds will represent the happiest of memories while drab birds the commonplace or unwelcome. Memories can be fragile, delicate as dry, hollow bird bones. Or they can fly away. What happens when the memories you have trapped inside leave you alone in a cage meant for them?