Wither Without You

Every single plant in your window is dead. Not slightly wilted or gasping for air, but full on door nail.

And not just one of them. It’s ten different plants, a tiny cactus, and a plastic potted plant that is somehow inexplicably tipped over on the floor.

It’s not even a difficult task to pour a little water on the plants every now and then, hell a cat could probably knock a glass of water into your plants with a little work.

That’s the last time you trust the little pimple faced Fortnite addict from the apartment below yours to water your plants while you’re away.

The worst part is he’s 35, doesn’t have a job, and you were paying him $20 per day.

You step on the trash can pedal popping the lid open as you unceremoniously drop the first lost soul in. Small dirt chunks fly directly into your face causing you to step backwards. You trip over your suitcase setting off a human Rube Goldberg that ultimately ends with a toaster, a pizza box with half a pizza in it, and you on the floor.

Inspecting the pizza box you realize that you’d had to leave so unexpectedly that you never even finished your dinner that night. You lift a slice off your chest with a bite missing from it and throw it in the can.

Grabbing a dust pan and broom you replay the last three years in your head like a movie as you pick pepperonis up off the floor.

Dorothy Hanes was a character of a woman who loved to sing karaoke, drink beer from a bottle (because it tastes better), and never met a stranger in her life.

She had done factory work for many years as a means of raising you, but she never let the hard work affect the zest that she had for life.

Dottie, as her best friend Celia has nicknamed her, always went out of her way to make even the mundane seem exciting. She would add sound effects to every story she told, and she would take the junk mail and use it to make confetti. She saw the light in everything, and everyone, even if they didn’t deserve it.

Slowly over the last few years you’d noticed something was happening. Forgetting little things here and there were the tip of a very big iceberg that eventually melted into your mother referring to you solely at Katie. Katie was your mother’s younger sister who had died when they were children.

Watching your mother forget you in slow motion was one of the most painful things you’d had to live through.

Your eyes fill with tears as you think back over the last six months. As an only child, and your father long out of the picture, you solely had to make the decision to put your mother in a home.

You knew if your mother had her wits about her that it’s not what she would’ve wanted, but you felt as if your hands were tied and that once things settled down you would be able to bring her to live with you.

For the first few months you were able

to visit often, but with the increasing demand in your job and the facility being several hours away, time became a dwindling resource.

it always seems like something would get in the way. A last minute work meeting, late drinks with friends, or simply the feeling that you could call her tomorrow.

You’re ashamed to even admit to yourself that your phone calls became fewer and fewer each week believing that because she didn’t really know who you were she probably didn’t miss the calls.

The staff had called you that evening to let you know that it would be best if you came to the facility immediately. You’d thrown together a suitcase of who knows what, left the forgotten pizza behind on the counter, and prayed the half tank of gas would get you there because only God himself could make you stop for gas now.

Your knuckles were white the entire drive, and even though you drove in complete silence it was as if there was static in the air humming in your ears.

By the time you had reached the facility you were certain you were deafened by the silence, until the nurse spoke to you. The words “I’m sorry” were crystal clear.

In fact, never had two words been more clear and held so much information without saying anything.

You sat with your mother for an hour just holding her hand. in the back of your mind you knew there was a million things you were going to have to make arrangements for, but for that moment she was still right there with you.

Brushing her hair back, kissing her cheek, and hugging her you apologized through the tears on your face.

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you. This is my fault. You needed me, but I just wasn’t there for you.”

At the time a well meaning nurse had rubbed your back reassuring you that this was the nature of the Alzheimer’s beast and that no one was responsible for this.

In that moment it had worked, lulling you into a false sense of acceptance. In fact that had carried you through the entire week as you made funeral arrangements, picked out a casket, and greeted people at the viewing.

You hugged older relatives, greeted strangers whom you’re mother had made an impression on, and even read a poem during the service.

This was in fact just hand your mother had been dealt, and she played it beautifully. You didn’t have to feel responsible, after all you hadn’t given her Alzheimer’s right?

You rode all the way home on these fumes of denial until you landed on the floor of your kitchen covered in week old pizza and reality.

You know in truth that because your mother didn’t have visitors or phone calls she simply quietly withered away.

Back in your own home with no one but yourself to answer to you sigh, the truth heavy in your heart.

You forgot to water the plants.