The beginning...

She knew of course, or at least suspected something wasn't quite right.  It was the little things...things that didn't quite fit anymore.  Wouldn't go back into their spaces, where they belonged.  Things moved, the car wasn't where she left it.  Other things kept changing, familiar becoming unfamiliar.  Things that were second nature suddenly started becoming more difficult, things not quite adding up.  It was times like this she felt quite scared, but it didn't last and so she tried to pretend all was well... but was too scared to do anything about it...putting it down to age  She was just getting a bit older that was all.  Sometimes she would make a bit of a joke of it, the little periods of forgetfulness.  At other times she would get quite angry if someone tried to help, or interfere, as she saw it.  As if they thought she was incapable, or silly.  Who did they think they were, making her feel useless?  She wrote out lists, the days of the month, but even then, that didn't help....the  beginning of the end...the theft of one's self.   That is the tragedy of it.