“I can’t take care of you like this.”

His voice rumbled with disappointment.

Was he disappointed in me? I wondered.

“I’m fine.” I assured him.

“You’re not fine, you have dementia!”

It was then I realized for the first time that I was deteriorating like a sandcastle abandoned on the beach. The worst part was that my family was taking the toll. The doctors say it’s mild but progressive.

“I’m sorry for raising my voice. I shouldn’t do that, you know I didn’t mean to.” He said nervously.

“It’s okay, are you staying for dinner?” I asked in a cheerful manner to lighten the mood.

I glanced at my son as he exhaled a long tired breath.

“We just ate dinner dad. I’ve been washing dishes for the past 30 minutes.”

“Oh. Right.” I muttered.

He grabbed my hand and held in gently.

“I love you.” He said.

I saw a tear grow thicker at the corner of his eye and just like that he went back to the dish he had sat down half rinsed and continued to scrub.

I am that lonely castle made of dust barely holding on. Left to fend for myself at the shore. The little hands that made me were already on their way back home hours down the road. And I fear the wind will pick up tonight and my walls will wither away, one tiny grain of sand at a time.