thinking of those people who don't know us anymore

Who am I?
The sum of many parts, yes,
but not an equation.
For who I am, there is no simple,
no solution.
Many problems, yes,
but plenty good and whole pieces
cause the others to fit,
even the quirks and tics.

The fabric of my being is wrinkled,
and smooth.
Who am I to me?
Who am I to you?

What if a truck, or a fist, or a strain,
came along and struck me,
tore the fabric in half.
Would I be Me the same?
Would I be who I am? Would I be me, to you?

Or do I change some.
Does my Being go, too.

Am I me if, in time, I lose sight of the past, grip too hard (because I have to),
or forget when we laughed?
Is my soul's core unaltered if, in old age, I forget where my keys are,
or my children's first names?

What if insanity breaches,
unhealth finally reaches
me, comes to loosen the threads,
Will you see me as me? Or do we change some.

Do we untangle?
Do we Become, Stop, or are we Always?
Do we let go, or are we forced?

Would you still call my name
if I forget it,
and you, and life,
and who
I am?