life · · 3 min read

Yeah, okay moon, I see you

Too many years have passed between then and now… Yeah, okay moon, I see you, I thought… I got to get going, though. It feels like if I slow down, something might go terribly wrong.

Yeah, okay moon, I see you
Lynn Tillman /

I was walking from the car to the front gate of my parents' house to get my dad cleaned up, changed, and possibly shower him before bed depending on what kind of surprises were lurking inside his adult diaper.

As I was walking up the driveway, the moon 🌕 called to me from over my left shoulder and I looked up, and I heard it speak to me, although I can't translate for you what it said… It was mostly just showing me how beautiful it was, and I took that to mean, slow down and everything will be okay.

I used to consider myself an optimist…

Too many years have passed between then and now… Yeah, okay moon, I see you, I thought… I got to get going, though. It feels like if I slow down, something might go terribly wrong.

Dad doesn't have any surprises for me, so I just have to wash him up and get his pajamas on before putting him in bed for the night and heading home.

The drive home takes about 20 minutes longer than it used to since I moved out of the old neighborhood. It gives me time to think, listen to music, and reflect for a little while on whether or not I’m doing the right things with my life. I mostly just listen to music and sing off-key at the top of my lungs.

Tonight, I’m murdering, "It's Been Awhile" by Staind

And everything I can't remember
As fucked up as it all may seem to be, I know it's me
I cannot blame this on my father
He did the best he could for me

And now I’m thinking about everything that my dad can’t remember, and wondering if I’ll end up getting Alzheimer’s like him in a couple more decades. And I keep playing the song over and over, and my singing gets worse when I’m crying.

Who knows if I’ll even remember this?

That’s why I started writing again. I keep telling myself that I need to document what I’m going through, what I’m feeling, what I like, and what I don’t. I can’t have a conversation with my dad anymore. All I have left connecting who he was to the man I remember are his written words. Old newspaper clippings of articles he wrote, a few poems and short stories, and scattered notes.

It’s enough to make me smile.

That’s what all of this is supposed to be for my kids, for my unknown. My way of doing the best I can for them. And it's been a while since I considered myself an optimist.

I posted a couple more of Dad’s short stories in the, “e v e r y / w o r d” anthology I’m working on over at Substack. You can check them out below if you're inclined:

The Trouble with Transoms
Alicia walked to the back of the room, rose about four feet from the floor, and made herself comfortable. No one else around seemed to mind or notice that the girl was not standing on the floor, or sitting in a very high chair. Popular contention was, that Alicia was sort of light headed anyway, so that sort of behavior was actually expected of her. As the rest of the workers filed through the corridors, Alicia drifted, with some difficulty, from room to room, through hallways. Those damn transoms would always get in the way. One time she got her hair caught in a light fixture, just as she was pulling away from a transom. There were times when she had to stay inside, or else she would float away.
Brandy Alexander
In his penthouse overlooking the city, Pervis Reid stared into the lights of the symphony hall, at a faraway distance. He wondered if Dr. Selig would remember his condition and bring the medicine he had promised. Pervis walked back inside, with his chin held between his fore finger and thumb.

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