Mind the gap

I had one between my teeth, a gap that I was too young to notice much less care about, but apparently was wide enough for my father to request of my mother, take her in and get that fixed.

Done. It should be so easy now.

Now the gaps are in her memory. Deep pot holes in her thinking. Don't forget to bring the paintings with us. Dinner is in the morning and the guests should be here by now. I have to get ready. When are we leaving? I tell her the time is 3:30 in the morning and we're not going anywhere. She looks at me and orders a coke. With ice, please.

Now the gaps are in my thoughts. The word is right there and I can't remember it much less reach it. Cope. I cannot find my planner, so write numbers and notes on pieces of paper and forget them in the kitchen because I don't pass by that counter on my way out the door. I forget my lunch in her fridge. I forget that I was going to pick up those pants and that top when I was at my house over the weekend. I forget the brown shoes. During the weekend, I forget to meet my niece for dinner at 6:00. At the office, I forget to join that conference call at 10:00. During the day, I forget to make the doctor appointments I promised myself five weeks ago I'd make. Where would I borrow the time, from my job or her?

I take time away and forget to return. I spend time there and forget to take a break. The woman behind the counter at the Starbucks by Mom's house tells me that even she has to have a cup of coffee before she goes to work. Mind the gap.