For my dad, every day is Sunday. Not figuratively. Literally. I see him, he says, “today’s Sunday, right?” Occasionally it’s Tuesday. It’s definitely never Monday. And good for him, I think. Why not every day be whatever you want it to be? A weekday is really just a container that holds schedules. Stuff we have to do. Stuff we get to do. Something learned at a young age that brings some order to the on&on of it.

The learned stuff is wild. How it can start to loosen its fingers when the brain/soul/emotional engine gets tired of holding onto things that used to be second nature. Used to serve a purpose. Whether that’s because of time whittling it away or just a realization that some bits of scaffolding got built that don’t really need to be there anymore. Somewhere along my early unpaved roads, I decided that the little red wagon I hitched onto my life would need to hold everything I’d ever need to take care of anyone I ever loved. Because it was essential that I should always be the one to take care of whatever anyone would ever need or want. I would be there at the ready with the tools to, if not fix it, at least make it better by distraction or humor.

It’s not like that emotional carry-all didn’t serve me. It absolutely did. I remember when I understood just how handy it was as I stood outside the bedroom door listening to my mom crying on the other side. At twelve, I could rummage through what I was carrying, find what I felt was a solution (make dinner, tell a joke, slide a hankie under the door, not cause any trouble), then feel proud that I’d taken care of the situation. I was there. The only one who could do it. Over the years, the wheels of that little red wagon went round and round, grooving into my psyche so that fifty years later I don’t even hear it squeak.

Well, that’s a lie actually. Over the last little while, I’ve noticed the thing has become much more difficult to maneuver. Heavier. It’s run over my toes a few times and I’m starting to see it’s getting in the way. Not rolling smoothly but becoming a tripping hazard. The I’ve-got-just-the-thing-here-in-my-wagon reason for its being made me feel safe, competent, solid for a very long time. Any inkling of exhaustion made me tighten my grip rather than loosen it. Brought thoughts that I just needed to get stronger to pull the thing along.

Letting go of the grip has occurred to me before for sure (I’m looking at you, therapists) yet I’ve only dabbled in the quick-release, then grabbed hold again because I’ve grown accustomed to how that handle feels, the smooth bits where my fingers fit, and the weight of what it holds. And while I’ve also understood the hindrance of it, I’ve never seriously for any length of time thought about letting it go altogether. Sometimes I’ve been embarrassed about it and thought that by throwing some shiny covering on top I could disguise it. I doubt that’s ever worked. This is the first time I’ve introduced it to the public in large part because I feel more ready than I have been before to really call it what it is. Exhausting. Not necessary in its current form.

I say I want my dad to thrive in this new place that’s set up for him to do just that. And I’ve been showing up every day to make sure of it. But wait a minute. If I show up every day, how is that allowing him to find his way? I mean, sure, he loves to hang out with me and me with him but what about all those other very excellent folkx who wave and say “Hey, Dean. Good to see you” when we’re going for a walk? Margarate, the neighbor who delivers his paper every morning and worries that he’s getting overcharged for getting two on Sundays; Alan, who loves the Dodgers and genuinely engages with my dad on the topic when he sees him; Mitch and Judy who’ve invited him to sit with them many a time when we’ve passed the dining room, and on and on like that. And what if he doesn’t want to engage? Isn’t that his choice? Yes, clearly. Then why is there some rummaging in my mental wagon that pops up with NO, it’s up to me to decide for him. Feck, that thing just banged me in the shin. Hard.

As I dropped him off in the dining room for lunch last week, for the first time just escorting him in without staying, pointing out various tables with people sitting while I asked, Do you want to join them? and him saying, No, I’ll sit here and let someone join me,” I walked out feeling like I’d just dropped my kid off at school, my insides screaming “Oh-mi-gawd, I hope someone sits with him.” I called Dennis who reminded me that sure, maybe someone would sit with him, but if no one did then my dad would no doubt look around and watch people while still enjoying his meal. Or he’d feel lonely. Either way, that would be his choice.

Finding the balance between loving someone fiercely while understanding there’s no way to protect them from everything and that, in fact, it’s no good to always be there, one hand on their arm. That will only mean their stand-on-their-own muscle will atrophy and my balance will become fakakta as well. No good for anyone. So my shadow wagon. What of it? I can thank it for being there, maybe lift a few things off the top that I know can still serve me, then release the brake and let the thing roll on down the hill. Bye-bye.

(Naturally after writing that last line my first thought was Oh, crap, what if it hits something or flattens a valuable this-or-that? Fer fux sake, even my letting-go reflex has knee-jerk catastrophizing tendencies, which of course I knew already. So: the wagon rolls into a nice pond, floats around for a while, and all the fish circle with curiosity. That is all. Time to step away and take a walk.)