Kansas State
Touchstone Literary Magazine 2013
Finding Time
By Shannon Brooks
I don't have time. There's not enough time. If you could just see my to-do list, you'd know. I scribble, and check, and then add more. Time for a new list, this one needs to be updated. I can feel it now - the heat - it's inside of me growling and crawling, scratching its way out through my tear ducts, burning my cheeks. I can't breathe. I'm paralyzed by the overwhelming voice of failure coming from the words I, myself, have inscribed - acts that must come to fruition, or else. Or else, what? I feel that it is inevitable that we shall find out soon enough.
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There is a place, between the clink of the knife on the sticky glass rim of grape jam and the clank as I settle the knife into the stainless-steel sink, where a memory lives. I find them everywhere, the memories.
Wheat toast, usually. My mind is triggered as my knife pulls slowly across the golden crisp, up to the edge of where the past meets the present. In that moment, I am no longer standing in the glaring bask of fluorescent bulbs, but in the shadow of a woman with a pin curl perm, only a handful of gray hairs dancing through her natural golden-brown set. I can almost feel my young, tan, wiry knees digging into the springs of the antique dining chair, bouncing.
The woman’s hand, spotted and knotty, like the rings inside a tree trunk - each celebrating another year of survival, spreads the deep purple puree with meticulous ease. I wonder if this memory was among the few she had left at the end, tucked away for safe keeping, and if I will still remember it when I'm feeble and grasping for whatever pieces of me I can still reach.
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As far back as I can remember I had a working list of ideas for the ultimate accomplishment, what I would become "when I grew up." Both of my parents fostered this curious question, this quest of sorts, allowing my creativity to flourish. At one point I pictured myself twirling in the sparkly costumes and white skates on the ice, like they do in Ice Castles. Obviously that didn't work out, so here I am, so many years later still wandering the halls of uncertainty. In moments of neurosis my obituary pays a visit, flashing wishful thoughts and dreams of accomplishment.
All the real-life checkboxes: college degree, job, babies, pets, house. Life can't cut me off. I fear the clock will lose its momentum and my long list of things to do will be left in a heap of scrap paper, marked with multi-colored slashes of ink. A piece of art I never finished, or started. That bag of decaying plastic, cardboard, and glass, waiting to be made into something else, to save the Earth. All of these things left undone - reminders of my failed attempts, a legacy for my loved ones. Thankfully, that guilt won't follow me past my grave. At least I hope not.
If all goes according to plan, I'll be a pruney, blue-haired Betty. An accomplished writer, of course, and my genes would foster many artsy spawn. Perhaps I'll even live to see a century or so. But most sessions of this daytime dreaming, this cloud of philanthropic days and cabin dwelling summers, grows heavy over my head and bursts, all to my dismay. Constant in these pandering, life-in-a-bubble moments, is the one who will someday sit next to me on the porch of the summer cabin; just he and I, rocking along to the music in the breeze. My husband, my anchor - the one who helps to keep these hopes from dissipating, as clouds often do, and keeps me from completely losing grips - lost in between my obit and my to-do list.
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I forget, a lot. "What was that one thing you told me not to forget the other day? I didn't write it down;' is just one of the things I say to my husband a few times a week. I would give more examples, but I can't remember any. My lists are my little helpers, at least most of the time, as long as there isn't an army of them all barking orders at once, driving me to madness. I must have got this reliance on lists from somewhere.
My obsession with lists became glaringly obvious after noticing my dad's list-making skills. He even has symbols assigned to tasks. I haven't taken it to that level, yet. That's expert level. His Christmas card spreadsheet has X's and O's under each year that a card is sent to someone. He says to picture the X's and O's as fish; this helps. An X (fish swimming away) and O (fish swimming back) under 2009 means he mailed a card and got one back, two X's means he sent one and didn't get one back. If they get only X's for a couple years, they get axed. No more Christmas card for them. It's brilliant, really. Did I mention he's an engineer? That's one career choice that I never added to my list of prospects.
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Folded pieces of paper snarl in secrecy, in pockets of my bag or jeans, but I know they are there. I've had enough. I can't take anymore. I seek solace in my bed, a fort of blankets and pillows. If I can't get everything done, I won't do anything at all. I start to spiral, about to find out what the "or else" was that I previously mentioned. My sweet husband finds me, losing control that I probably never had to begin with, and soaking the cloth of the pillow where my dreams are made. I feel my words spew, and they have never felt so small.
In his presence, the snarls are mere whimpers. He quells their tempers, their impatience, the urgency that constantly barks from the tiny papers. I peer out from my refuge and to my surprise the world is still intact. Perhaps my levelheaded reasoning skills won't make the cut in my newspaper clipping, my life on display in four hundred words or less.
Of course, a list is never complete. I should probably use pencil, not permanent ink, to scrawl my duties. But that would look less neat or smear, and I just can't have that. Time to revise again. The laundry is done, my paper is complete, and my rocking-chair pal is taking a few delegated items to put on his honey-do list.
Next up: the calendar. It's almost October, and fall always brings tasks my way. Maybe I should have said I wanted to be a list-maker when I grow up, so at least my obit would read: She passed away while doing what she loved.
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My Grandma made lists too. Notes dotted the tidy landscape of her and my Grandpa's tiny, but efficient, 1950s era home. I can picture the slips of paper, congregating around the kitchen calendar and gathering next to the telephone. An all-out social gathering of lists invaded their space: torn sheets of steno paper, post-its, blank, white slices tattooed with Howard Johnson or Embassy Suites, even the backside of receipts were welcome. I wonder if she realized how much she relied on those lists. I don't think she used my technique, though, condensing into one master list. At first she tagged mostly family heirlooms or anything with sentimental value. They had a note secured to them somewhere, with a paperclip, or a string. Her cursive writing, in pencil, detailed the significance of a knitted blanket, whose hands made the piece, and when.
As my Grandma broached her eighties, before she was moved into a secured "memory-care" unit, she had post-its on her pill organizer detailing why she took them, when, and how often. When she started taking them off and rearranging them because it didn't make sense any more, my dad took her to the doctor. Her forgetfulness had taken on a new level. I don't know if I really want to find out if my Grandma and I have the same ominous gene, the one that gives us a predisposition towards Alzheimer's. I have poured over pages of Alzheimer's research, but the disease is as complicated as it is cruel. In fact, I could be void of the APOE-4 gene variation and still end up with Alzheimer's. I figure, either way, I should take any precautions I can, but having a piece of paper with words confirming that I carry one or two of the gene variations might as well be a death sentence to me. I've seen it in action. The Alzheimer's Beast eats your to-do lists for breakfast, your memories for lunch, followed by a reckless abandon at the buffet that is your brain for dinner.
There is a part of me that feels an urgency to capture all of my moments on paper. My calling to be a writer perhaps stemmed from this pull, the realization that none of this is forever. So if for no other reason but paranoia and preservation, I have at least a dozen journals, scribbles on every page. I go through phases of writing in my journal. For weeks I write methodically every day, carefully recording important details and observation of life, some profound, some not. Then I will tuck it away for a month. The frequency always varies, but I've almost always had a journal. I recently found a little treasure of my earliest writing. I was ten-years-old writing page after page with my No. 2 pencil in my best cursive writing. Musings that only a third grader would find interesting: the day I got a new bus driver, and the fun of playing Monopoly for the first time. The golden-edged pages are disjointed from the binding, but the lock still clasps shut keeping all my memories safe for later access.
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The first outward signs of Alzheimer's affect the short-term memories; any recent memories, or items in the "quick recall" file of the brain are at risk. Imagine my concern when I recently passed my exit on the interstate and then missed a turn the next day. There is nothing a list can do to help me with driving, and a GPS to direct me from home to the nearest gas station is out of the question. I attempt to keep sharp by using old-lady games like crossword puzzles and Wheel of Fortune, and also the website Lumosity which is aimed at the younger folk. I'm sure I need to make a list of all the ways not to get Alzheimer's, for easy reference, but I haven't gotten around to it.
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"If you use a spoon, it spreads easier," Grandma says, and then licks the spoon clean of the remaining jam. Her lips, thin and lined, painted pink to match the pale roses just beyond the kitchen window, give a smile and she wipes the sticky glaze from them, leaving a blot on the paper towel. She turns away and retires the spoon to the sink. This is my cue, my exit from the past back to a place where all I have left of my Grandma are the memories she and I shared.
I crunch the wheat toast and jam, and remember watching the funeral director paint her lips with the same color of light-pink lipstick for her memorial service.
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