Dry skin wrinkles like an old shirt in the back of a truck. Weathered, losing color. I forget to apply lotion on my hands after the boys are sick and I’ve washed them a million times. Zeke furrows his eyebrows, confused again by my requests. He loses his words like I forget meaningless things. Close the door, bring me your cup I repeat for two years. My husband and I wonder if the lack of eye contact is due to the pandemic. His delayed language a masked, contact-less residue. Slow to respond, express himself in context—I can’t leave him alone with a stranger. Who's to say what seeps into all that confusion. He whimpers into the air without resolve, dust you can’t catch or clean until it gathers.