I fold up everything from my suitcase and place my belongings it in the deep second drawer. The dresser is in my parents’ spare bedroom.

We’d kinda planned that we’d have some space of our own by now. But the Airbnb didn’t work out. From the start the whole ordeal felt like nudging a boulder toward higher ground. Wrong unit. Still uncleaned from previous guests. Flooded bathroom. A nest of angry wasps that made quick work of my exposed skin and continued their attack up my pant legs and sleeves.

That space to call our own lasted less than 15 hours. Good thing we hadn’t unpacked.

 But now my sweaters are all folded; stacked neatly on a green, upholstered chair with a high back. My guess is my mom picked it up at a garage sale. That high back gives my sweaters something to lean against. No tottering tower of wool here.

***
There’s something wrong with my mom.

I’m not sure about the propriety of me speaking so bluntly. But the reality of the situation takes up so much space in my brain that it’s hard to avoid thinking, or writing, about it.

Her mind has stopped working the way it should. And I have no idea if there’s any possibility of getting it to function properly again.

And while it’s my dad that has the cancer, the chemo, the uphill climb, it’s my mom that is so obviously impaired on a daily basis.

There are very few cohesive conversations these days. Lots of misplaced words, questions, incomplete thoughts.

I’m starting to worry about her driving. But, I’m not sure if that’s related or whether it’s even fair. Much like her clutter. Cluttered space isn’t really indicative of a cluttered brain, right? If I haul a box marked “empty CD cases” to the dumpster when she’s not looking, will it help? Or maybe it’ll satisfy my own restless inability to do something to be helpful.

Like I said, I am not sure how appropriate it is for me to be exposing the burden she’s carrying. But we each seem to be carrying our own corner of the struggle.

***

Clouds are gathering over the front range of the Rocky Mountains. Low hanging, wispy grey tissue, pregnant with rain.

written: 10.3.22