Just got the call. Like, an hour ago. 2 AM exactly. My sister, her voice all tight and like she was trying to whisper but it was still too loud. Mom fell. AGAIN. Third time this year. This time she broke something. Her arm. The left one. My sister said she was reaching for the tea kettle, the old whistling one that's been on the stove since I was a kid. You know, the one with the chipped handle? And she just… went down. Just like that. I'm sitting here, looking at the ocean. It’s dark, obviously. Can't see anything but I can hear it. The waves. Always the waves. I moved here for the waves. For the light. For the *art*. Remember telling my mom, "I need to live my truth!" She just blinked at me over her reading glasses. Didn't say anything. She never said anything when I said stuff like that. Just… looked. Like I was speaking a different language. Which, I guess, I was. And now this. Mom in the hospital. Alone. My sister’s there, I know. My sister always handles everything. The doctor's appointments, the calls, the food, the bills. Everything. While I'm here, painting shells, trying to sell them at the farmer's market for ten bucks a pop. Ten bucks. My sister probably thinks I'm a joke. I mean, I don't even — whatever. It’s not like she’d understand. She’s got her corporate job, her perfect house, her two kids who are both in med school. She has *purpose*. Me? My purpose was supposed to be… this. The art. The freedom. The quiet. But it just feels like… running away. Like I ran away from all the hard stuff. From them. From Mom. From being there when she needed me. I mean, she asked me to come visit last month. Said she just wanted to see the new painting I was working on. The big one. The one I said was for her. I told her I was "too busy." Too busy painting the goddamn waves. So now she’s alone, broken arm, probably scared, and I'm 800 miles away, staring at the dark. I should have gone. I should have packed up the old Subaru, driven the whole two days. Just to see her face. To bring her some of those little shortbread cookies she likes. The ones with the tiny little dimples. She always loved those. Always said they were "just enough." I’m not enough. Not for her. Not for any of this. I’m almost 60. What have I done? Really? What have I actually DONE? My sister said she'll call in the morning. After the doctors have seen her. After they’ve figured out what’s next. I just… I don't know what I'm going to say. I don’t know what I CAN say. My brushes are all lined up on the easel. My paints are out. The canvas is blank. Staring at me. Just like Mom used to stare. And I just… I can’t. Not tonight. Not ever, maybe. God, I feel like such a SHIT.