A fruit, but I can't remember the name of it

All the days are the same here.  I wake up, get dressed, have breakfast and go to the living room.  Every day I sit and watch TV programmes I have never heard of, having coffee and a biscuit with a bunch of strangers.  The next day they’re all gone; replaced by new strangers.  It is very odd.  I ask them about their children; I tell them about my son and my daughter and then the next day I have to tell it all again.

There is this woman who visits me often.  She reminds me of my mother.  She says she is my daughter but surely I am not old enough to have a middle-aged daughter?  But then I look at my hands and they are the hands of an old woman.  I wriggle my fingers – they are my fingers alright.  My wedding ring is loose.  I must have been married but I can’t remember the face of my husband.

There are many things I don’t remember.  But I can still see my mother’s face and hear my father’s voice.  I remember the igloo we built in the terrible winter of ’63.  I remember the name of my first teacher and the silence on Liberation Day.  I remember the trams and the smell on bus 23 that went to the seaside in Scheveningen.  I remember my Gran who threw the Christmas tree out of the window on Christmas Eve.  I remember many things but I don’t remember the birth of my children or the face of my husband.

The woman who often visits me peels a fruit, slices it in bits and feeds it to me.  It is a lovely piece of fruit though I can’t remember the name of it.