Then Mom says the most Lydia James thing ever. “That one kind of looks like a dildo.”
My body slumps in the chair, shoulders bouncing in hushed hysterics. I hide my face behind my hand while Richard snorts from her other side.
Mom laughs, shameless and bright and entirelyher. I cast a wish on the sound, praying for the breeze to take hold of it and deliver it back to me when I start to forget.
Summer officially givesway to fall. By October, Mom is completely bedridden. The hospice nurse puts her on a catheter as her windows of consciousness grow smaller and smaller.
Nobody can predict how much longer she has. Could be days, could be weeks. I watch the shallow rise of her chest for hours on end, stuck somewhere between wishing she’d wake up so I can hear her voice one more time and begging God to end her misery.
Sometimes it feels like I’m not breathing any better than she is. I inhale along with her and hold my breath, waiting for her next one. Life is a constant loop ofis this it?
Over two months have passed since Rowan left. Our nightly phone conversations are the only time my lungs take in a full breath most days. Hours spent catching each other up on our day, discussing the mundane, the notable, and all the things in between.
For the first few weeks, I sensed his hesitation to talk about Tess. Admittedly, it’s not always easy to hear about his mother’s recovery while mine slowly turns into a shell of herself before my eyes. But I’ve never been able to shake his words all those years ago, the same words I recited back to him before he left—there’s joy to be had now if we’d just open our eyes to see it.
And I do. I find joy in the little things.
Mom squeezing my hand after three days of no consciousness.
Kristen popping in unannounced on her lunch break for a block walk, showing up in the evenings with a bottle of wine.
Artie, Tom, and Cecil spending their Sunday afternoons with me in place of their usual VFW festivities.
Richard asking me to teach him how to play chess sparks an excitement I didn’t know I needed.
My soldier’s coffee deliveries and care packages.
Rowan.He’s not one of the little things. He’s the biggest, brightest thing. The most constant, reliable thing.
Dubs’ plea the night of the gala circles my thoughts on a loop.Take care of him.I try to do as much for him as he’s doing for me with all these miles between us.
Handwritten letters mailed the old-fashioned way in hopes they brighten his day unexpectedly. The occasional letter for Tess, too.
Midnight texts on the nights Mom’s rattling lungs are so unnerving I’m too scared to sleep. Sometimes he’s awake too and we begin a rapid-fire call-and-response chain of memes meant to make each other laugh.
Takeout deliveries on the days Tess’ physical therapy is particularly hard. Does he still tell me to stop sending him things?Yup.
“I will if you will,” I snark one such afternoon after another surprise Chinese food delivery.
He lets out an easygoing sigh. I grin against the phone as I pull into a parking spot in front of the pharmacy.
While I could have Mom’s prescriptions delivered, I’ve found the regular pharmacy runs are an easy way to get out of the house. A good opportunity for me to stretch my legs and clear my head for ten minutes.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” I climb out of my car and head inside, the bell over the door jingling as I enter. “Alright, gotta pick up Mom’s meds. Talk to you later?”
“I promised my mom an Indiana Jones marathon tonight so I’ll call you tomorrow.”
I chuckle. “Indiana Jones, huh?”
“It’s a Harrison Ford thing. I don’t get it.”
“Mmm, I do. Tell her I approve.”
“Gross.”
“Rude.”
We hang up and I lean against the pick-up counter, waiting for the pharmacist to return. Two figures pass by the windows at the front, and I gasp quietly.