It seems a simple thing. Thursday is trash day. It needs to be on the street by seven a.m. I missed it yesterday as I have missed it many days. My late wife never missed it. Never. Even in the darkest days of her dementia she could be counted on to trundle the trash can down the drive and out to the street. Every Thursday morning, rain or shine, there she went, doing the assigned chore. It was amazing, and it’s more so now that the task has fallen to me, and I have let it slip through my hands so often.

Oh, well I’ll tackle the problem as I tackle all my problems. I’ll think about it. Maybe even it make it more than it actually is. But in the thinking, something will come up that I’ll try to help me remember. And maybe I will. I’ve done it before. I’ve worked really hard remembering names, partly because now that I’m on my own I no longer have a partner with a facility for names who would whisper names in my ear. Now, it’s just me, and I’m getting there. Even now faces float before me and I remember names and sometimes it even works when I encounter a person in real life, unexpectedly.

It's sort of fitting this morning that there’s a fog on the pasture, because when I miss trash day I feel as though I’m in a fog. Lost and failing to understand how I can forget such a simple thing as trash day. It makes life seem a complete mystery. Of course, I’m an experienced fog driver and I know the best bet is to slow down and watch the side of the road. The life analogy is to slow down as well. Take a deep breath. Worry about what you can see. What’s done is done. And at some point the fog will lift and I’ll be able to see clearly the path before me.