I've been on autopilot so long I sometimes forget what it's like to just… feel something besides this dull ache behind my ribs you know. not sad not mad just… nothing. it’s like after a bad deployment when you come home and everything is too bright too loud and you just want to crawl back into that quiet dark space inside your head. that’s where I am now except it’s my mother’s house and the dark space is my bedroom at 2am. it’s just the routine now. seven days a week it’s me. the pills the injections the PT exercises that make her wince and me pretend not to notice how her grip on my arm tightens. the special meals the doctor's appointments the endless calls with insurance and pharmacy. I signed up for this didn’t I. someone had to. my brother he's too busy with his important job and his important life across state lines. he can’t be bothered to learn which meds need to be crushed and which ones can’t be. he wouldn’t know a subcutaneous injection from an IV drip. he just shows up for Christmas and Thanksgiving. and everyone acts like he’s a goddamn saint for it. oh look at Mark flying all this way to see his mother. such a GOOD son. he brought flowers. he took her to that fancy restaurant once last year. and mom smiles and holds his hand and tells him how much she misses him. she never says that to me. I’m just… here. part of the furniture. the one who makes sure she doesn’t choke on her food or fall and break a hip. the one who cleans up when she has an accident. the one who gets her out of bed every morning when she doesn’t want to move. last week he called and she told me to put him on speaker. she was telling him about her new physical therapist how tough they were. and he said 'oh mom you're such a TROOPER. you’re so brave enduring all this.' and she just beamed. she never calls me brave. I was in a war zone for two years she never called me brave then either. he shows up for a long weekend and he’s a hero. I’ve been living this twenty-four seven for nearly three years. and I'm just… the nursemaid. the unpaid caregiver. the one who sacrificed everything. sometimes I picture myself just packing a bag. getting in the car. driving until the gas runs out. but then who would take care of her. I hate him for it. I hate them both for it. and I hate myself for not hating it more. it’s just this… emptiness. like a wound that won’t close but doesn’t really bleed anymore. just a scar that aches when the weather changes. and it’s always raining in here.