Forgetting

There were words I once knew,

and people and places, too

that are somewhere 

inside my head, 

hidden in a fog

of thoughts and phrases,

and lyrics and answers,

long since forgotten.

Stop me if you've heard this before,

I begin, but you just smile,

patiently, hoping the retelling

will help me remember the details

that seem to be fading over time.

When my mother-in-law tells me she needs 

more chocolate chip cookies,

I ask if she would like me to take her to Target 

to replenish her supply.

She suggests we go to Kohl's instead, 

but I assure her we'll have more

luck finding cookies at Target, if that's okay. 

She shrugs her shoulders. 

It really doesn't matter to her,

as long as she can have more cookies.

I sit in my car after taking her home, and I cry.

I remind my own children to be patient 

when my own forgetting gets worse.

Don't worry, Ma, my girl says to me. 

I'll be happy to take you to Kohl's 

to go grocery shopping 

whenever you want. 

I've got your back.

I want to laugh, but my heart hurts. 

My own reality is merging with my mother-in-law's,

and I'm not sure which one of us remembers less.

She has decades more of memories than I, 

and remembers her earlier years with a clarity I envy.

We both struggle to recall what happened last week, 

and what we were going to write on the calendar today.

My phone rings so much more often these days. 

"Where are you? 

When are you coming? 

Can you tell me what time you will be here?"

She has a calendar, but it is so hard to read, 

and it is even harder to remember to read it. 

If she forgets everything else, 

I hope she remembers she is important, 

she has family who loves her, 

and people who care.

We will answer her questions, 

even if the answers haven't changed 

since the last time she asked, 

and we will smile while we do it. 

She might not remember what day it is, 

or what her husband's full name was, 

or where she lives, 

but we will make sure 

she never forgets she is loved.