not so total recall

by Bella Rum

I woke a few minutes ago and didn’t know where I was. Dad’s? I’m at Dad’s. I’m sure of it. I hear the hum of the window unit, feel the soft breeze from the oscillating fan and see the glowing confetti of pinpoint lights emanating from the electronics. Yep. I’m at Dad’s.

I’ve learned that lists were invented to keep your life from rolling off a cliff.  We have lists for everything. There’s the Sam’s list, the grocery list, the list of Dad’s supplies, the lists of things that CANNOT fall though the cracks this week, the list of things to pack and then there’s the schedule. I’ve learned that the schedule is the big dog and it’s playing havoc with my memory. Or my memory is playing havoc with the schedule. Sometimes I don’t remember what day it is.

I write it all down, but it seems to be a living, breathing animal, ever-changing. I’ve decided it’s women. Not just these women but women in general. Our jobs are a priority, but we have other priorities: a sick husband or mother, a second job to juggle, kids. I’ve come to view these things as the enemy of the schedule. I admit that, so far, it’s going well. We always work things out because that’s what women do best. We cooperate. But I’m telling you first, it could all roll over a cliff at the drop of a thermometer. No one can get sick… except Dad.

The schedule isn’t the real problem. It’s my memory. In addition to the lists, I have calendars. I have a calendar on my computer at home, the iPad and the most used of all, a regular, old-fashioned calendar that I bought at Wal-Mart for $2.98. It reigns supreme. It goes with me everywhere because I never know when I’ll get a text that changes the landscape. It’s written in pencil. It may as well be written in sand. It changes with every tide… or text.

I’m ready for coffee. It’s still dark outside, not even a hint of light sneaking through the blinds. Hot, creamy coffee. My friend.

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