By Lauren Agrella-Sevilla

 

When all hell breaks loose, 

I organize the closets.

Please tell me I’m not alone.

 

I don’t do it in a relaxed way:

I do it, usually, frantically –

Making piles of stuff to trash, give away, and keep.

I do it like I am careening toward a massive cliff and might somehow be able to break my fall by putting shit in its right place.

 

Please tell me I’m not alone – that, on my way to the rehab facility, my father in the midst of yet another psychotic break,

(We don’t know how to handle this, the nurses say.)

it makes complete sense to stop and get the oil changed in my dad’s old Jeep.

 

He has fallen. Seven stitches in the forehead.

He cannot recall what he ate this morning. He’s convinced they don’t know he’s there.

 

For God’s sake, I tell the guy, just do the deluxe service.

For God’s sake, I tell myself, just get this little piece of it all put together.