Why we forget names but remember facts
There's a woman on the north side of Kingfisher I've been out to see six times in the last two years. Sharp as a tack. And she can't remember my name. Every visit opens the same way. I come up the walk, she opens the door before I knock, and her face does this little thing where she knows she ought to know what to call me. The first time it happened she apologized for about three minutes straight. I'm so sorry. I know your face. I just can't get your name to come. She's not losing her mind. She's in her late seventies and sharper than most people I meet in their forties. On that first call…
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