Recently, after marveling at his performance in King Lear, I watched an interview with Anthony Hopkins, 83 now, who said that to keep his wits sharp he memorizes a poem a week, and so with his good advice, I have begun to try to ward off the darkness I fear the most, the loss of mind and memory, and thus also have begun to learn by heart the first of 52, “Requiem for the Croppies” by Seamus Heaney. 
Vinegar Hill, Enniscorthy, southeastern Ireland
A copy of the poem fitted snugly to cardboard backing goes in my pocket everywhere, and now I reach for it at odd moments of distraction or rest or while waiting and scan another line or two and say it all again, silly brogue creeping in, my eyes closed and mumbling near others like a patient on the lam or while keeping sight of the dogs racing across some hot field to the stream where they love to sink until the water comes up to their necks. And for a time, the sadness disappears.
