Lobster Day

I don’t remember February 8, 2025.

In a few days I may not remember writing this. It may be a day that dissolves for me.

But for him, not remembering means something.

It means his father said he has dementia.

It means being cut out of the will.

It means he’s losing his mind.

I brought lobsters the other day.

When I walked in, there were rows of lobster cracking tools already lined along the counter. He had been texting me all morning, excited the lobster was coming.

Roscoe ran figure eights around my legs in the long front hall.

The house felt busy with anticipation.

Today was clear.

It was lobster day.

Later, in the garage, the car came up again.

The car had been sitting there for over a year.

He asked if I thought we should sell it.

I asked how he felt when he thought about letting it go.

He said it brought up a sense of losing his freedom and getting old. He began explaining the finances — insurance, payments, why keep paying for something he wasn’t using. He looped back to insurance again. Then to whether Dr. B thought he might recover his spatial memory. Then to whether he should keep it in case he could suddenly drive again.

He hadn’t driven in over a year.

He talked about buying a new one if that ever happened. About needing money later. About maybe needing a scooter someday. About other seventy-year-olds not being in as good a shape as he was. About how he never thought his life would look like this.

The conversation circled and circled.

Then it shifted.

He began talking about a woodshop.

He could put it in the garage. Or maybe he shouldn’t bother the neighbors with the noise. They make soundproofing boards, he said. Or maybe spray foam insulation. Or maybe he should rent space from Bruce Macgreggor down on 6A — a big metal building where people did metalwork and woodworking -the one from the town he hadn’t lived in for decades. But he would have to drive there, and he didn’t have a car. I could bring him, though. He didn’t want to bother anyone. The HOA probably wouldn’t allow a shed. But he’d love to have a lathe — he’d been good at it in high school.

The loops kept returning to the same place.

The car.

The shop.

Insurance.

Driving.

The future rearranged.

His dignity was trying to find a foothold.

We stood in the garage.

I told him that even if the car stayed, he would still need me to help him. Groceries and appointments would still happen the same way they had been for the last year.

The room went quiet.

He stopped moving.

For a moment he just looked at me. Then a light came into his eyes — quick, unmistakable — and he smiled, almost surprised, and let out a soft chuckle.

“That’s true.”

Something left him right then.

We sat and talked about how it would work. We imagined the woodshop again — birdhouses, small furniture, maybe toys. Roscoe leaned his full weight across my lap while we planned soundproofing and tools.

When I left, he walked me out as always and tipped his hat — his signature goodbye.

Driving home I cried.

A text came through:

Best lobster day ever. I love our conversations.