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

once,

 then.