Do you think he can do that?

He asked if he could help and I said he could get his stuff out of the front seat. He goes to the driver side and I say, no, your stuff is in the passenger seat. Then he opens the back door and I pointed to the passenger door and said, that door. Open that door and get your stuff out and…..

Mom.

…..he still tried to open my door…..
Mom.
…..and he wouldn’t listen to what I was saying…..
Mom.

What?

Do you think you can tell him to open the passenger door and get his things and he can do that?

Well, yes, I guess I do.

He can’t do that.

Anymore.

I watch her break in half.

He can’t open the passenger door and get his things. He doesn’t know what the passenger door is. He doesn’t know which things are his.

I watch loneliness fill up the cracks in what was once a whole person.

It isn’t that he doesn’t listen to you. It’s that the words don’t mean anything anymore. He can’t hear you, mom.

I watch hope disappear. Like the last lingering fingers of a fog, dissipating into the day, I watch hope disappear.