Too Far

Franklin didn't know it would be the last time, the very last conversation. A year had passed so quickly, and his mom's dementia had kept pace, Every visit, day by day, he saw her slipping away. But Franklin still visited often, although it became more difficult each trip.

"The cab is here, mom, gotta go." Franklin walks to his mom's room with the lavender scent, with the doll collection and sachets in the drawer. His mom seems so small on her bed, sitting on the side, smoothing out single dollars from her purse.

Franklin knew the routine, taking the handfull of bills as they hugged. He had learned to just accept anything she gave him, and then just stash it somewhere, because his mom won't remember, so any drama is avoided.

He sees her struggling to clear her thoughts, and he feels the stabs of sorrow and anguish. They're so deep his whole body shudders in spasms of surrender, a visceral helplessness, he draws in one sharp, fearful breath.

What good does it do to hate a disease? But, those irrational feelings can return in an instant of rage and grief when there is no fair turn remaining, when Franklin's mom waves from the window, and then she was gone.

Why is so much importance always attached to final events? He didn't know they would be final words, they seemed so commonplace and familiar. "Call me when you're home.", his mom repeated yet again, but now he knew that he was too far away.