Stumbled. At first she stumbled. She laughed, we laughed. A glance off the kitchen wall while she put our breakfast out. Funny. Later we overheard hushed phone conversations. Why were they mad at her at work, I asked my brother. Go to sleep, he said. Soon it was her balance. Dropping things. Falling down. Still we laughed with her, but not as much. I can’t see, she said, you’re going to have to help, okay? Yes, mother, of course.
I should have paid attention.
I glared at the old woman. She stared at my mother as I steered the wheelchair through the tight aisle of the grocery store. Back then, Mom could push the cart while I pushed her. We loaded the groceries from the list—and nothing more—into the cart, before heading to the checkout lane. I wondered why the store clerk talked so loud.
I should have known.
Your friends can come over, you know. Yes Mom, I know. Are you embarrassed of me? Never, Mom, never. Did I even have any friends?
I should have brought friends over.
I stood up in class. She needed me, I felt it. Sit down, Mr. Boyd, class is not over. Sorry, I said, and left. An honor student no more. I found her on the ground next to the couch. Why aren’t you in school? Why aren’t you on the couch? Good question—don’t be sarcastic—can you help me up? I tried. Not strong enough, I gave up and sat next to her, wondering why my big brother was never around anymore.
I should have tried harder.
I can’t fight this anymore. I need you to tell me it’s okay to give up. What? No, Mom, you can’t. Never mind, I’m sorry, she said.
I should have given her permission.
Instead I watched the slow, painful fade. She suffered, disappointment in her eyes, in me. Now I get it. Too late.
I should have.
