MIAMI AT NIGHT                                 BABOON FAMILY, SOUTH AFRICA                                           photobucket.com wisin_23                 copyright 2011 Joseph S. Jackson, by permission

We are going to South Florida one weekend, South Africa the next.  I sit with my coffee and make yet another list.  It takes about ten minutes to assign the remaining To Do’s to the remaining days. 

In the middle of writing a task for Wednesday I glance up at Tuesday. “Check boxes.” What boxes?  I  need cartons to tote canned goods for the HOME Van, but that’s not what I meant.  What I meant has fallen into the void that follows behind me, swallowing thoughts a minute after I think them.  It is gone, like a twig sucked down in the current, and like the twig it will bob up again somewhere down stream.  I know there’s no use trying to find it now.  I return to Wednesday.  There, right next to “load flash drive,” is half a word: “Dil.”  Shit.  That’s gone too.

My mother-in-law, Naomi, lives in Deerfield Beach, in a second-floor condo overlooking a canal.   We stop for lunch and a swim on our way home from Miami Beach.  She makes us coffee for the road, and I go down to the car to get my travel mug, grabbing a couple of satchels to carry down.  Unlock the trunk, put them in, go back upstairs.  “Where’s your mug?” Joe asks.  Oh. 

I go downstairs again.  I take the plastic bag with our wet bathing suits, and the gift bag Naomi gave Amanda to celebrate the adoption.  I unlock the car, put them inside, and go back upstairs.  Open the door, and stop still, my mouth gaping.  Joe laughs.  I turn around without a word, and head back down one more time, thinking, “coffee mug, coffee mug.”  This time I succeed, and head back up the stairs for the third time.  My mind may be slipping, but my legs are growing stronger.

Finally, after bouncing from bed to bed in Johannesburg, Kruger, and Swaziland, we are in our own house in Capetown, and I am cooking our first meal. Very simple: burgers with no buns, salad, potato chips from the plane.  The burger meat is too lean, and the stove puzzling – I’m accustomed to gas.  But as the burgers cook, I prepare the salad. 

 
OUR CAPETOWN KITCHEN

The kitchen is well-equipped, and I pull out a blue plastic colander to wash the greens.  I tear up the iceberg, arugula, spinach and watercress.  Get the oil and vinegar, salt and pepper.  The kosher salt is damp  in the grinder, and  comes out in clumps.  Oh well.  Plenty of pepper, and then oil.  Toss well, add the vinegar. 

Joe sets the table, Amanda gets the burgers, I bring the salad.  I return for the salt and pepper and am puzzled by the puddle of oil on the counter.  I examine the bottle – no cracks, no oil down the side to show I spilled it.  I wipe it up and we begin dinner.  Joe serves himself salad and says, “Liz, this is a colander not a bowl.”  He shows Amanda the holes – in my defense, they are inconspicuous in the dark blue plastic.  But it all comes back to me – I forgot to wash the greens, and dressed the salad in the colander.

I used to ask my law students not to come into class late, or talk during my lectures.  “I lose my train of thought, and there’s no telling when another one will come down the track.”  I don’t believe this is Alzheimers or dementia, just late middle age. Although it is a nuisance, I find it amusing, I suppose because my friends are in the same boat. But writing entails catching thoughts on the run, then tidying them up. How can I do it when my thoughts disappear? 

I could carry a little notebook, but I fear it would be one more thing to lose, like keys and glasses.  I’m sure there are plenty of memory tricks on the Internet – aging boomers are a booming business.  I will probably let it be.  None of my thoughts are so valuable that I can’t afford to lose them.  And another train always comes along eventually.

.
WHEN'S THE NEXT TRAIN?

Photobucket.com: Tracks. by ILYB2014
 

 NEXT WEEK: Why I Love Like My Kindle

I'd love to hear from you. Click on "comments," below.