The Morning He Asked if He Was In His Own Home

I woke to a text from my dad at 1am.

He couldn’t understand why he wasn’t allowed to eat.

His ultrasound was at 8.

I called him. He was already awake, his mind working at it the way he used to work through numbers. He kept circling the same question, as if there were an answer just outside his reach.

I explained again: we would go to the appointment, we would come home, then he could eat and drink. A small plan. A few steps.

He was quiet.

Then his voice changed.

Very softly he asked,

“Am I in my home right now?”

I pictured him in his chair, looking at the same walls, out the same window; waiting for them to tell him where he was.

“You are,” I said, “Everything’s ok. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

For a moment neither of us spoke.

Then I heard his breath release. His voice steadied.

We hung up.

I stood in my kitchen holding the phone.

Nothing around me had moved.

But I understood something had shifted.

He had been waiting for the world to confirm itself.

Instead, he had waited for me.

That night I did not remind him.

I placed him.

Some days I am tired in a way sleep does not touch.

He is trying to find where he is.

And, for now, he finds it when I answer.