Early one morning, a cold but sunny morning, the small staff and I were lowering the coffin of our most recently departed patient into the ground.  Her name had been Samantha.  She was only sixteen.  She had been with us, then suddenly she was not.  We do our best to keep the residents from taking their own lives, but you would be amazed at how creative the mind can become when determined to find a means.  As I stood motionless near the rectangular hole in the earth, I looked out at the rows of markers dotting the glistening landscape and thought about how Samantha, too, will be forgotten.

She loved to dance.  I couldn't get that Elton John song out of my head.

"Hold me closer tiny dancer."

Two or three days later, while making my daily rounds, the art room suddenly grabbed my attention.  Having no background in the arts and crafts, I  had never paid much attention to this spacious room with colorful walls.  I walked in and looked around.  The mediums were restricted due to the lack of potentially dangerous equipment allowed, yet the results were quite impressive.  Art was everywhere.  A painting of a pleasant countryside hung next to a linear painting of a bearded man, perhaps Jesus.  A rainbow textile drooped above one of the many sinks.  A clay pot, unfinished, sat on a wheel that was filthy with silt.  I reached down and picked up a piece of clay, pressing it into the shape of a dog.  I chuckled.  No one would have guessed it was a dog.  I rolled the clay back into a ball and tried making a head.  Not just any head.  The head of Samantha.

More time was spent than I recall, pinching here and pushing there, struggling to make this ball of mud resemble a girl I had recently buried.  No matter how I tried, I could not get it to look like her.  Was I that bad?  I shivered with the realization that it was not for lack of skill as much as failing of memory.  Too many features were blurry in my mind.  Too much time had passed.  The process of being forgotten had begun.

I didn't let this horrible idea invade my memory again until the next resident passed away.  William.  52.  I found myself back in the art room that night, after all the patients had been put to bed, and began my task of sculpting his head.  A short while later, I lips formed a sad smile.  As bad as I was at art, the head still looked enough like William that it would remind me of him.  That was good enough for now.  He would not be forgotten.

Throughout the years I have created hundreds of heads.  Although my talent still leaves much to be desired, I have found different materials to use to enhance the resemblances.  On occasion I've tried recreating the body, but this never seems necessary.  As television news anchors constantly demonstrate, what defines us most is above the shoulders.  The head is who we are.