Border of Forgetfulness

A lonely afternoon turns into an unexpected dialogue between two invisible companions—Memory and Forgetfulness.

An aging man finds himself caught between the weight of what should be remembered and the comfort of what must be forgotten.

A quiet, emotional story about time, aging, and the fragile border between holding on and letting go.

By Faramarz Parsa

Border of Forgetfulness

I was sitting in my solitude, not in the mood to talk or sit with anyone.

At this age, a person prefers to stay more with himself.

For half an hour, my eyes had been fixed on the minute hand of the clock—

a hand that spun nonstop, carrying the heavy weight of time on its back.

Poor thing… it was created for nothing but this endless duty.

I felt something inside me, trying to provoke me into speaking.

I told myself:

“Don’t react. Lock every corner of your thoughts. Let yourself fall into the arms of Forgetfulness.”

For years, most of my thoughts had been locked away like that.

While shifting on the couch, my gaze drifted to a framed photo on the wall.

I found myself caught between Forgetfulness and Memory.

I wanted to rest in the arms of Forgetfulness,

yet Memory was climbing up my neck, refusing to let go.

The struggle wouldn’t stop.

I suddenly shouted:

“Enough! Not you… and not you either!”

I looked like a madman.

Softly I whispered:

“Fine… you start, Memory. What do you want me to remember?”

Memory answered firmly, almost angrily:

“Your good days. Why are you running from them?”

Forgetfulness jumped in:

“Leave him alone. What good days? Days that will never return?”

Memory laughed:

“And why do you care? What do you gain from keeping him in the dark?”

Forgetfulness, like a gentle mother, placed a hand on my head and said:

“The peace I give him is worth more than all your happy memories that eventually turn into pain.”

Memory snapped back:

“You think you’re helping him? You’re stealing him from his own life!”

I stopped them both:

“Listen… I need both of you.

I need you, my dear Memory.

And I need you, my essential Forgetfulness.

It all depends on when and where I must embrace each of you. Understand?”

They both stepped back, then disappeared for a moment—

as if consulting each other.

My eyes once more turned to the photo frame:

me, my wife, my children, my grandchildren.

I tried to recall the date of that day, but I couldn’t.

I called out:

“Memory! Where did you go?”

No answer.

“Forgetfulness… are you still with me?”

Silence.

I stood up with great difficulty.

A familiar voice echoed in my ear:

“Don’t forget your cane, old man!”

I laughed.

“You never let me rest, do you?”

Memory and Forgetfulness returned together.

Memory embraced me gently:

“I know it’s hard… but you can’t have all of me.

I come and go—scattered, unfinished.”

I looked at her.

“You’re crying… for me or for yourself?”

“I don’t know,” she said.

“Maybe because I’m drifting away from you.”

And again, that voice whispered in my ear:

“Everything has its time. Don’t forget your cane.”

Forgetfulness took my hand.

And the cane slipped from my mind.