Published at The Orthosphere on the 28th August, 2026.
A name would not come to me. The name of a poet, Australian, Catholic, a writer of the verses of many hymns. Memory surrendered the composer of the music after a brief struggle—Richard Connolly—but the poet’s name it would not cough up.
There are times when a contest with uncooperative memory is pointless. I’m on a hiding to nothing because I have…nothing. I’m scratching around for a word or a name, and all I know is that once when I sought it in the myriad myriad of memory, its particular light would illuminate; but now only darkness. No string to tug on, no breadcrumbs to hope to follow. The only recourse in such blankness is to abandon effort, and allow it it come to mind unexpectedly in an hour or a day or never.
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