I move my razor from the shower caddy
to the shelf
because he keeps using it
even though I’ve labeled the handle.
I write matching numbers on each pair of long johns
because he can’t seem to dress himself anymore.
I hide the bottles of medication and vitamins
because he can’t remember what he’s taken.
I remind him daily not to wear his slippers outside,
to take off his knee brace at night,
to put the medical alert button in the recharger.
I give up.
I give in to being the Memory,
the Accountant, the Cook,
the Chauffeur, the Valet,
the Event Manager
for someone not the someone
so lively and quick
that I knew