So I’m sitting with Joe at the breakfast table, eating our requisite oatmeal, and he’s playing songs for me, hoping I like them. Today we hear off his iPod the “On My Way” song by Rusted Root, and he says that he really likes it and that it would work for Stone Age Rally, a computer game. I say so would AC/DC be fitting, and he laughs. The glass window is open, and it’s slightly cold outside, and we talk about the trees and the light that will come in now that I’ve cut some down. I go over my plan to get gas, and how the ones we cut took only one tank of gas, and he asked if that’s good, eager to know how these things work. I say yes, feeling a little avuncular. I love sitting here with him, this bright and growing boy. We see a red-headed woodpecker, the little ones with the little yamuka of red on their head, and it twitches down the trunk of the lovely Japenese maple, probing for bugs. I can understand its thrill at that. As Joe is talking, a big clot of cottonwood fluff falls down behind his head; I can see it in the window. We talk for a while about when the cottonwood releases its seeds, and I say twice, and he says he’s not sure about that. He was mad at me for waking him up late, but took a thirteen-minute shower and feels better now. I blow on my coffee and the plume rolls over the table and fogs my glasses. I have to laugh: I feel like I’m unfurling a lot of years, looking back over a lot of time. It’s an odd and histrionic moment.
When we get in the car, Joe realizes as we’re driving that he forgot to brush his teeth, a big deal. He’s so angry with himself. He says, “I don’t know why I can’t remember anything. I can’t remember anything. I go into the house to get something, and I take off my hoodie and then I can’t find it. I take off my shoes and then I can’t find them. I can’t remember anything.” This sounds very familiar, and it’s clear he is suffering from the same mental virus that I am. I tell him that I try to put things back in the same place every time (he says he won’t remember to do that), but I say you can train yourself to do it. And you can take a minute out as you’re heading out the door to reflect and go over things so you can remember them. Joe points out the logical contradiction of remembering to remember, and I tacitly agree. But then it occurs to me there is a problem with premise (that he has a bad memory). I tell him that he actually remembers really well most things. He has a great memory. He really does. And is a very insightful watcher of movies and reader. I don't say those things then, but only now. They are true, but its easy to sound saccharine. And when we’re heading out the door, 99% of the time he has everything, and it’s just those few times when he forget that stand out so large in his thinking. He’s actually very good at remembering.
And this seems to help, and we drive to school.
Then the noises begin. I drive them to school, need gas, got to plan for graduation, can’t find my own papers to grade, can’t find my own phone, the wave of chores about SVWP is crashing over me, and I’m swamped. Typical day.
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