Just the other day I stood waiting to cross the street. As the cars passed in front of me I started thinking about how odd it’d be if one of these cars were to veer a little to the left. Maybe a crying child; maybe a bad day at work; maybe the shadow of a cat on the road; the causes could be many, the outcome the one. Onto the pavement the car would go.
Violence. Then silence.
Opening my eyes, I might remember, vaguely, that yes I’d gotten off work (what work do I do?) but now I’m here, looking at you looking at me: you who are in the scrubs; you who are telling me you are my wife; you who are calling me papa (I’m a dad?)
How strange it would be. Without memory would I be me?
As I stood waiting to cross the street, I took two steps back. Let that not be today.
Donn, fragments 
Nicely expressed and I think we are who we are only because of memories. Henry Molaison, suufered the worst unthinkable event in his life when he couldnt develop any new memories after 1953. His life stood stagnant at 1953 and as he became old he was not able to recognize person in the mirror
Thank you Panini.