Tonight I am exhausted from remembering. 

From being the memory.

It started at 5:00 yesterday evening. 

I made us dinner.

He was not to supposed to eat after 6:00 pm,

preparing for today’s endoscopy.

No food after 6,

no liquids after midnight.

I put tape across the refrigerator door.

I wrote NO FOOD on the tape.

I brought him into my sacred space

so I could make sure he didn’t eat.

He sat on the day bed and did crossword puzzles.

I painted with watercolors.

After a while, he got up.

Where are you going? I asked.

Twice.

“To get a snack.”

Again

I explained that food was forbidden.

He was NOT happy.

I wasn’t about to stay awake all night

to keep him from drinking water.

I just hoped it wouldn’t matter.

No breakfast made him grumpy.

More explanations about the endoscopy.

He sat in my workroom

while I wrote a blog post and sewed.

The morning dragged.

Finally we drove to Kingston.

We were early.

They were 45 minutes late.

“We have a line of colonoscopies,” she explained.

I laughed at the image.

He wanted me to come with him—

the man who insists he’s not anxious.

They said no.

Not enough space to maintain social distancing.

I sat in the car.

Waiting.

Listening to an audiobook

because I forgot my handwork and my iPad.

Someone came out to get me.

“He’s sitting up in the chair,” she said.

He was woozy.

“What did they do?”

I explained again.

“What’s this?”

He showed me the green tape on his arm.

This man who is so big in my sight

because he takes up so much

of my thoughts and care and energy—

this man suddenly looked small

and muddled,

dwarfed

by the oversized recliner chair.