He cries harder.
We stay like that for a long time.
Long enough that my back starts to ache and the pills start to wear thin at the edges and the grief underneath begins to make itself known again — excuse me, I’m still here, remember me —
Eventually he goes still.
Breathing deep.
Back under.
• • •
I get him to bed.
Slowly, carefully.
Tuck him in properly.
Leave the Tylenol on the nightstand where he’ll be able to reach it.
I stand in the doorway of the room he shared with my mom for twenty-two years.
Her pillow.
Her nightstand.
Her book, still open to the page she was on.
Still open.
Like she just got up for a glass of water.
Like she’s coming right back.
I close the door quietly.
• • •
And walk back to my room.
The pill bottle is on my desk where I left it.
I sit on the floor next to my bed — the bed feels like too much of a commitment right now — and stare at it.
I’m doing the math.
It’s not the first time tonight I’ve done the math.
How much I have.
How much would be enough to just — turn the volume all the way down.
Just for a while.
• • •
I’m definitely still a little high.
