But she didn’t want to let go. She didn’t want to leave early. Not even a little bit early.

Unlike me, my mother was always the last one to leave: birthday parties, dinner parties, get-togethers of any kind. She always stayed to the very end of everything, as if to get every drop of whatever experience she’d signed on for. Growing up, while waiting to go home, I’d always find my mother in somebody’s kitchen with a dish towel in her hands, helping to clean up, laughing and talking and smiling, flushed with energy and life, so unlike the way she was in our kitchen, in our house. Sometimes I’d watch her from a doorway, from another room, from where she couldn’t see me—Who was this delightful social fun person?—wishing that version of her could come home with us and be my mother. But somewhere on the ride home, on the highway or on the quiet side streets that led past all the Victorian houses that surrounded our modest street of tidy Colonials, the air would seep out of the balloon. The world, our world, deflated back to its normal size. Back in our own driveway, in our own house, we were once again ourselves: quiet, disconnected, passing each other like strangers in the kitchen or on the stairs on the way to bed. Did we ever say good night to each other when I was growing up? We must have. We should have. Isn’t that what families do?

There at hospice, in a big room with a view of a Japanese cherry tree in full bloom and a giant bird feeder hanging from its branches—though she was drugged and her mind and body were already shutting down, slowly at first, and then all at once—her eyes were still wide open, taking everything in. Until she was gone, she was somewhere she didn’t want to leave, not until the last possible second.

In bed now with the dog in the sling, my tongue running over the sharp brackets glued to the front of all my teeth, I think about everyone who has left early: my parents and, soon, Glenn. Not to mention Teddy, who will go off to college in a few years, and Charlotte, who will, like all pets, eventually expire. I think about disconnection, and how I’ve been trying to find ways to keep Teddy and me from growing further and further apart. It hasn’t occurred to me until now that going through the same experience of getting braces right along with him could help him, or me; that our circles could overlap instead of floating next to each other; that we could suffer together instead of alone.

Maybe we can stave off drift and relapse. I fall asleep thinking about Teddy and me in big white sheets, dressed as giant People Puppet teeth, connected at our waists by chain-link belts, our braces, keeping us together forever.

Walking the Reservoir

I get out of the car and walk toward Wheeler’s Field off-leash dog park, where I always take Charlotte first before we do a long loop around the reservoir. The usual suspects are all here—Lady, Atticus, Poppins, Ogi, Bazel, Shelby, Cooper—dachshunds and Bernese mountain dogs and border collies and mutts and shepherds, all running and jumping and chasing balls under a perfect blue autumn sky while their owners, in layers of crewnecks and fleece vests and quilted jackets, stand along the sidelines, making awkward small talk. As always when I approach the group, I feel both ignored and deeply scrutinized. It reminds me of the awful playground years, when Teddy had to be dragged kicking and screaming whenever it was time to leave the slide or the sandbox and all the parents rolled their eyes in judgment.