My son is here. He comes in the door and approaches me. I’m in my wheelchair. He reaches down and embraces me. I struggle to say his name, telling myself he deserves the effort. I see the letters in my mind. I try to make the sound that is his name. That name as familiar to me as my own.
There was a time when that name was so painful that I wished I could forget it. But it was always there, just below the surface. Now I try to pluck it from the air but the sound comes out jumbled. Even I can hear it isn’t right. All those wasted years that I had the ability to say what I meant. All those words, squandered.
I motion for my talking machine. I run my finger over the icons for chair, toothbrush, toilet. But where are the symbols for I’m sorry? For I wish I’d done things differently?
He hands me a lollipop. I struggle to unwrap it. He helps, as if I am the child, and he, the parent. I plop it in my mouth. It is very, very sweet. I do not try to speak now. It takes so much effort—those words all lost to me now.
Maybe the time has come, finally, for him to speak and me to listen. But he is unpracticed. He wastes his words on pleasantries. I want to tell him “NO!” Say something, finally, about your pain. How you suffered because of my selfishness. My stupidity. But he doesn’t seem to have the words, either.
My son bends down and unlocks my wheelchair brake. In silence, we go out and look at the stars.
