"When I was younger, I could remember anything, whether it had happened or not; but my faculties are decaying now and soon I shall be so I cannot remember any but the things that never happened. It is sad to go to pieces like this, but we all have to do it."

— Mark Twain

I was getting out of bed on a Sunday afternoon when I got the text. My feet hardly grazed the cold, hardwood floors as my phone went off. Part of me was inclined to ignore it, when I recognized the chirping of the crickets. I remembered, some months ago, when I chose to set my mother and my father's ringtones aside from my friends for this very moment: the decision on whether or not I want to look at that stupid little screen. My first intent was to use it as a vessel while I'm writing and so engaged that the thought would pass by in a millisecond.

Dad has never been one to double text, and the response to my late-night telling of a game show hosted by Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson was received at 8:22am. It was now 1:57pm, and I feared for the worst as I'm well known to do.

My decision was immediate. I wanted to prolong the inevitability that I would have to get ready for work. So I picked up the phone, but immediately dropped it again. My weak, tired legs gave out and I fell to my knees in the apartment that's likely more than three times my age, that's likely as old as my grandfather. When my knees hit that cold, hardwood floor, only one thought crossed through my mind: The aching pain shooting through my knees was nothing compared to the stabbing I felt in my chest when I read the words my dad so carefully typed out.

Papa just passed away.

The second thought that went through my head as I lied collapsed on the floor, was reading on to learn my grandma, my uncle, and my father were with him when he took his last breath. Why wasn't I? Guilt rang through my bones when I remembered exactly why I wasn't there. It was the same reason I didn't go to papa's 70th birthday party. I chose school and work over family.

The gears in my head spun around as I put the pieces together. Every single member of my family went to that party. Every single member but me. That means that they all saw papa in November, but I haven't seen him since Easter. And it hurt. It hurt me physically to know he's gone and that I'm never going to see him again because the last time I had the chance, I chose school over him. I chose school over my dying grandfather.

Then, came the third thought of the day: How am I supposed to go on like everything is okay, when I harbor so much guilt?

I should have known this was coming when my dad told me that papa was put on hospice the day after Christmas. I should have known this was coming because he's been fighting this fight for so long. I should have known this was coming when he was described as completely catatonic. I should have known this was coming when he couldn't even recognize his own son.

The day before, I felt so lonely in my empty apartment and now—now lonely doesn't begin to encompass what I was feeling when I realized that, if any, we only have a single picture together. That picture, if it even exists anymore, has disappeared into the cyberspace of my father's Facebook. I scrolled and scrolled, but I couldn't find it and, naturally, I panicked. The tightness in my chest grew and I couldn't breathe. I can't fucking breathe and I'd rather be dead than feeling what I'm feeling right now. Why can't I find the picture?

Still, on the floor, I throw my phone across the room and awaken the cat. The bell on his collar jingles as he prances over to me, nuzzling his head against my arm and meowing for breakfast. What once was a tradition that brightened my mornings, now I can't stand. My fourth thought of the morning was towards my cat as I simultaneously begged him to leave me alone and pulled him into my arms.

I don't mind when his whiskers tickle my nose or that my tears are burrowing into his fur. I'm glad that he's here for me to hold, but it doesn't last. He squirms out of my grip and, like the Emotional Support Animal he was destined to be, sits by me. Just staring, almost as if he's telling me with his eyes and his body language that he's here for me even if no one else is. And he knows I appreciate it because he knows how difficult it is for me to admit that I need help.

If I ever needed help, it's now more than ever. But the green eyes of the cat I love are telling me that he's determined to sit with me while my body shakes with sobs. Maybe he's the only help I'll have—he usually is.

I want to scream when my mind shifts back to the reason I was crying in the first place. Four days into the trimester, and I got earth shattering news. Four classes and two campus jobs, and I'm already so tired. How am I going to go to class like this? How am I going to go to work?

My fifth thought of the morning pops into my head as I rush to find my phone. I have work in less than hour. I text any lifeguard I can find, hoping that one will show compassion. Three 'no's come through before I finally receive a 'yes', and I fall back into bed because it's the only place I want to be.

When the sixth thought came, I hated the fact that I even had a brain to conjure it up in the first place. It's not fair that he left me like this. It's not fair that he couldn't remember me or my dad or any one else. It's not fair that we had to watch him fall apart like this. It's not fair on me. Just when I'm feeling emotionally well, he leaves and It's not fair. I wonder, just for a moment, how it's possible for a heart to forget all the things it once loved. Then, I remember he had no choice in the matter.

My seventh thought of the day humbled me as I pulled my blankets over my body and sunk into my mattress, not having the energy to encourage the cat curling next to me. I wish we had one more day. Just one more day so I could tell him how much he meant to me and give a proper goodbye. So I could tell him that my love for reading likely came from his, and my love for writing in pursuit.

All I wanted to do was make him proud, to make everyone who shares any specter of my genetic makeup proud, even if he couldn't remember my name in the end. If we just had one more day, we could talk about theatre and drink chocolate milk and everything would be like it was before he got sick.

My eighth thought of the day was spiritual, something unlike me to think of. If it's true that our spirits are left on this earth after we die, then I don't know what to do because he doesn't know where to find me. He doesn't know that I made it to college, he doesn't know that I was 218 miles away when he took his last breath. His spirit will go to the house I used to live in, and he won't be able to find me. He won't be able to find any of us because he got sick long before we moved onto better things.

If it's true that his spirit is wandering around, I hope it's who he used to be and not who he ended up as.

The ninth thought I have is how I want to be happy for him. I want to be happy that he's not in pain anymore, but I'm so selfish. I'm selfish because I want him back. I want him back even though I knew where he was in his head. I knew he was still in the war, alongside all the people he was living with in that ward that he's met a million times yet never at all. I know that he lived in fear, all alone in that nursing home, but I want him back.