She listens to the sound and admits she’s never said that word out loud. She thinks she’s closer to the end than to the start, so why start now? He sees his mother off, sits down, and asks around for pot. It’ll be alright if neither can remember who each other are. She purses her lips; I watch her reminisce. He tries to laugh, but there’s a secret past where he watched them both get weaker, memory slips and heart attacks. She asks if something’s wrong (she read the liner notes from that one song). Maybe there was a guy when she was young. I try to reconcile two kids with a place with a picnic bench inside and the image of the parents they’ve been for my whole life. And while no one knows me better, somehow they seem like a couple shadows always out of reach. How am I supposed to make them survive in me?