Traveling different time zones

Margie didn’t feel well today. Her back hurts, and pain is exhausting. 

Struggling with the zipper on her Patagonia jacket, she told me, “This zipper has always been a problem. I bought this jacket with my father, on Prospect Avenue when I was about fifteen....  How old am I now?” 

I said ninety-eight. She laughed, "Oh my god, that's old!"

We walked three blocks to our usual coffee place, which she didn’t recognize, and while we waited for our cappuccinos she said her sister (who died decades ago) is on her way to visit. 

I asked, “Do you want to see Helen?”

“Good God, no. She’s very smart, but not very… I can’t think of the word. Helen and my mother are always yelling at each other. I hate listening to them. But I’m glad you’re here. You have an embracing presence.” We held hands and beamed at each other.

The coffee shop was noisy and distracting, and I felt the racket was muddying Margie’s cognitive waters, so I suggested we finish up and go back to her place to talk. She was happy to agree. Home, she relaxed into her recliner, and as soon as she settled in, the phone rang. It was her son Dennis. 

“Oh Dennis! I’m so happy to hear from you! You’re going where? Argentina? Wonderful! I’m fine, fine. Just perfect. That’s so sweet. You are so sweet to me…you have an embracing presence.”

They chatted for a bit, and all her phrases were clear and sensible. Dennis wouldn’t have guessed she was having a hard day. After they hung up, I said, “So he’s going to Argentina.”

“Who?”

“Dennis—didn’t he just tell you he’s going to Argentina?”

“Oh no, I don’t think so. Argentina? No, that was my brother Bernie. I love him so much.” She was fighting to keep her eyes open, so I bid goodbye for today.