I ate at a restaurant last night, more like a diner, where the acoustics gave me an earache. A table of screaming girls drunk off something and boisterous kids at the table behind me filled the ambiance. I couldn’t even hear my father, part of it because he lacked energy and could barely speak up. Except I heard him ask me if I’ve been looking for jobs. I would’ve rather not heard him say that because the job search has me feeling hopeless. I didn’t know what to say other than nothing.

I ate a half-pound cheeseburger, and I’d had better, I’d had worse. It tasted like home cooking if you’re into that. I say you’re better off at home where it’s cheaper and the sound won’t scratch your eardrums. My mother said her fish and chips tasted the same. She called it comfort food, and I agreed.

My father said it was the best egg sandwich he’d ever eaten. I tasted hyperbole, but maybe he was honest. It didn’t look that great, and he didn’t even eat the bacon. He fed it to me like I was a dog. How could he not eat it on a breakfast sandwich? That’s like a PB&J without the jelly. But his diet has always been strange. He used to eat Necco wafers for candy. If you’ve never had a Necco wafer, it’s the worst candy ever invented. Basically a paint chip with sugar. I may as well be eating chalk. His favorite licorice is black over red. His favorite chocolate is marzipan. Where did he pick up this unusual palette? Other people like those things since they still exist, don’t they? I have more conventional taste buds that crave pepperoni and mushrooms on my pizza. He likes black olives, which ruin the taste. Oddly enough, I used to enjoy black olives when I was a kid. I would stick them on my fingers and eat them off. It was fun. Nowadays, such a thing I won’t do. I don’t get close to black olives or green olives unless I’m drinking a cocktail. But since I don’t drink anymore, having one makes no sense. Actually I don’t mind one on a Greek salad with feta cheese and cucumbers. I’m sure they go on one but not positive. It could be black olives instead.

But anyway, he’s getting more exhausted, forgetting the names of football players or getting them wrong altogether. I have to correct him or pretend he got them right to not point it out. Is this the beginning of dementia? I’m worried. I’ve moved to Palm Springs knowing I’ll have to take care of them sooner than later. My mother is doing alright, but I see him every weekend and notice his cognitive decline. His intelligence has remained, but his memory is becoming duller than ever. I don’t recall him a year ago forgetting so many names. He had things to tell me yesterday, but they kept slipping from his mind. Wow. I asked Mom about his lethargy, and she said he took B-12 shots the other week, but his urine has been way too yellow. I didn’t see the issue with that. I guess there must. Otherwise she wouldn’t have brought it up.

The question remains where will I be in the next five years when their health deteriorates? They’ll be in their eighties, and I’ll be in my fifties. I don’t know if I’ll even have a job. What will I do to support them and myself? I often worry about how I’ll survive alone when they’re gone. I’ll find a way through my resilience, although I’m too scared to find out how.