Sitting at the fold-out table in his hallway kitchen, I take down notes of my late summer afternoon with Dave. Already today I've fixed him lunch, washed his hair, watched him take his meds, etc. I went to the pharmacy forty-five minutes ago, came back, found he had no more quarters left for the washing machines, and huffed back out to the bank. Figured he needed more milk too, so while I was at it I went to the grocery store and compared cents per ounce for five minutes before defaulting on Lucerne and booking it back.

Now I sit here, watching the old man slouch while I record mundanities and pill schedules. He's there in the easy chair I gave him from my grandfather, watching Gunsmoke. His eyes sag like a basset hound's, his feet pink and bloated with water. I made sure he changed clothes since he won't do it otherwise, but he hates the heat and defies anything more than Boxers and a white V-neck. Comfort, I guess. His hair sticks up like Einstein, his bedroom is a pile of nick knacks. His bed, his table, his quarters, all small and pale. 

I fear becoming him.