An Eighth Shot of Espresso: Coffee and Creativity on Mum's Third Shift

Memories are fleeting brief cracks of time sometimes so clear  other times so muddled  she does not remember  my face or my voice  I live so far away like a short story in only one printed volume until I am there in person  and somehow suddenly  it produces a spark  of prior knowledge

a cloud over memories  she cannot remember  a life afflicted by fog  she knows this place holds some significance these faces should  be utterly familiar but it slips her mind. what did I do have I been here before  where am I  grasping with silent fingers an unraveled tapestry a stretched fabric  of a life punctured by holes.

she is bewildered:  who are these people  who visit her every day  they tell her their names  but why can she not recall  they are still strangers she puts down her phone but then cannot find it it's not where she left it the house is haunted bad spirits move things she asks the same questions gets the same answers I'm getting old, she laughs this happens to everyone you can't blame me for it. I got lost just one time road construction changes how everything looks nothing is how it  used to be. But don't you worry these episodes don't last I'm just fine and I don't need help I can take care of myself

Sifting memories through my hands they crumble fade away washed out in the rain. Details are no longer clear and sharp. As much as I grasp they slip and fall into a murky abyss. I notice it is day one minute and the next it's already night. Where had the time gone? Why is it so fast? Faces hover over me They tell me who they are. I cannot recall I rely on the truths they tell me but honestly I cannot remember.