Rocked by Him by Lucy Lambert

looked like a lighter work day. I might actually not be the last person out of the office for once!
    Sitting, I started the process of booting up my computer. It was then I remembered the couple of small knickknacks I'd set away in my purse to customize this tiny space a little. Make it feel slightly less like the sterile office environment it was.
    I reached into my purse and my fingers closed around the letter from my mom. I'd forgotten about it.
    I opened it, pulling out of the paper and holding it flat on my desk beside my keyboard. My eyes scanned the lines quickly. I realized I’d only really given it a cursory glance before, too concerned with getting out the door.
    My smile dropped away from my face, and my mouth went dry.
    My dad was pretty young, comparatively. So it was pretty concerning to the whole family when, about a year ago, our GP referred him to an Alzheimer's specialist. Dad was beginning to show signs, then.
    According to my mom, he was getting worse, much worse. There was talk of hiring live-in help. Though I didn't know where mom thought she could get the money for that.
    I turned the letter over and shoved it to the corner. Then I put my face in my hands and leaned forward. The pressure against my eyelids made spots of color explode in my vision.
    One of my earliest and most fond memories of dad was when I was about three years old. We had one of those rope-and-board swings hanging from the thickest branch of the maple in our backyard.
    It was fall, so the leaves were all brilliant oranges and reds. As he pushed me, those leaves started raining down around us. The colors were so vivid in my mind's eye. I remember both of us laughing, smiling. Both of us happy. It was like an image out of some beautiful snow globe.
    The login prompt popped up on my monitor just as the air conditioning kicked on again. Cold air spewed down my body, spilling down the back of my neck and leaving my skin pebbled with goosebumps.
    It didn't help my mood at all.
    This was almost worse than getting a letter saying he had died. It was awful. He was still here in body, but his mind was being slowly destroyed, that awful disease claiming his personality and memories piece by piece.
    Suddenly, that manila folder on my desk seemed the least important thing in the world. All those thoughts just minutes ago, those goals of becoming completely career-oriented, seemed so lackluster, so unworthy of the effort.
    Sighing, I pulled the few pictures from my purse and taped them to the back wall of the cubicle. There was a family portrait. We all had ugly Christmas sweaters on. It was from last year. We'd all bought each other the ugliest ones we could find, then got that portrait taken.
    Mine had a combination of red and green stripes so loud it was like two neon signs had puked on me. Sarah, my sister, had bought that for me. I'd bought mom's.
    But we were happy. Those weren't fake smiles.
    I must have sat at my desk for the next fifteen minutes looking at that picture. Did I still have that sweater somewhere, or had it been donated or chucked? I really, really wanted to have it, to put it on. Like it could magically transport me back in time to that happy moment.
    That just led to other, unpleasant thoughts. Was that going to be our last ugly sweater Christmas photo? Our last real family photo?
    I hadn't even logged into my account yet. I knew that I should, that throwing myself into work again might help. Just like it had helped with not thinking about Jerry.
    But I couldn't. I kept willing my fingers to move, pleading with them to type in my username and password. If that Windows desktop popped up, I knew that I could start. I could put all this to the back of my mind and then give mom a call after work.
    My fingers must have thought it was all even more pointless than my mind did.
    You'll lose your apartment, my conscience prodded. You won't be able to see Drake again; you'll have to pack up and move home.
    Home, with mom and dad. On