When I help Mitch into the car,
or clean up his poop, there are
no Thank Yous, no backward
glances of gratitude. It's as if he
is saying, "That's your role, my
role lies elsewhere. This isn't
a matter of manners, you know,
this thing between us."
So I carry on without complaint,
though feeling slightly used. I
decide it's time to talk, to get
it out, to clear things up. My
words are interrupted by snores
that slowly fill the room. “Later,
later," he seems to be saying.
June 19, 2017