My name’s Rare. Mom tells me it’s short for something – a memory that she still has. There’s not much more of those, actually. I guess the origin of my name isn’t one that stuck. No, instead, she has more memories of cats’ names and recipes. The bad ones, too. I tried to get her to make a quiche with me one morning and she all but broke down.

No, there aren’t too many memories in her anymore.

I suppose, though, that it’s not the memories that make a person; rather, it’s the lessons we take away from them that make us who we are. I swear there is still a twinkle in her eye when she sees a handsome man. When the right song comes on the radio, she still swishes her head back and forth because she knows she likes that song.

Of course, she doesn’t remember why. She just knows she does.

I’m starting to see an appeal in that way of living. She doesn’t operate because she wants to relive old memories. She keeps going because that’s what she is. She’s Operating.

Perhaps self-awareness sucks more than we admit.