Cues

Dad sees a boy running in his bedroom. I don’t see the boy. But I do see my bedbound dad’s anxiety. He wants the boy to go play outside, under the coolness of trees. I take cues from the hospice nurse: how she pinched the air where annoying invisible candles flickered in another patient’s room, extinguishing the unseen wicks. I’ve grasped the boy’s hand to lead him out, I say. I imagine the boy tugs on my arm in the entryway as his other hand reaches for the front door. Weary, I imagine a time when I don’t let go.