I call and I call, but he no longer answers. I try helplessly to figure out where he is based on the things he said when he was making more sense. . . wrong. Over and over I call his name but no one answers. Maybe, I figure, his vision is blurry too, so I drive to a similar location. Still not answering. I lower the windows and dial the number and listen. . . nothing. Keep driving, keep calling, keep listening. Finally I hear it. Oh God, I hear his phone but not him, please let him be ok. I run frantically around the area trying to find him, I keep calling.
There he is. . . curled under a bush, not moving. He is cold and stiff. I panic, afraid that I am too late. I drag him out, God he's so heavy. I don't remember him being this heavy last time. I get him turned over and am bombarded with the smell of alcohol and vomit. His eyes slowly open, "Lady" he says "it's ok, my sister is coming, just leave me here." He seems confused when I explain that it's me, that I have found him, that I will take him home.
Home to what? Home to broken dreams and promises. Home to empty walls and beds? How can that be home? Perhaps the concrete where he was lying was a little warmer than this place.
My heart breaks a million times over as I watch him stagger around and cry about all he's lost. I want so badly to help. Just like when he was little I would try to figure out how to push the food under the door so he could eat. Now it seems there is nothing I can do. I stood there helpless and sick until the mosters inside finally quieted enough to let him rest.
I tuck him into bed and kiss his forhead. I am so sorry. "Sorry for what," he says. "Sorry for all of this," I reply, "Sorry that I can't help this time." I leave the house tired and thankful that I found him. Please God if you can't make his burden any less, please always let me find him. Please don't make me say good-bye to someone else over a broken heart.