“The Last Night Before They Leave”

I got home from work today, exhausted after being up since 6:30, and all I wanted was a nap. But of course, they were in the kitchen, cooking. Cooking is always an event with them—usually ending in smoke alarms and me scrambling to air out the house. I’ve tried to teach them: low and slow, oil the pan, or just use the toaster oven at 350. Safe, foolproof. Tonight, they actually listened. The smell of pork filled the air, and for a moment, I felt like a cartoon character floating on the scent of something delicious.

Then came the knock on my door. “I think there’s tapeworms in the meat,” they said, their voice tinged with panic. The pork, still scalding hot, was already in the trash. I tried to explain—gamey meat can have parasites, that’s why you freeze it—but reasoning doesn’t work well in moments like these. They were scared, not just for themselves but for the cat, too. They spilled water while trying to clean, then fretted about sanitizing the floor.

It’s funny, in a way. They’ve never been one to help with cleaning—the kitchen is my domain, messy but clean—yet here they were, lecturing me about sanitation. Still, I handed them the Clorox wipes. Now, they’re on their third shower, and it sounds like someone’s being waterboarded in the bathroom. I’m just hoping there’s no mess to deal with later.

As chaotic as it all is, I’m choosing to see this as their strange, clumsy way of showing care. They’re leaving tomorrow, and maybe this is the closest thing to love they know how to express.

At one point, they yelled, “Stop attacking me!”—hard to nap through that. “Tweakers are really annoying,” I thought, though I don’t think it’s stimulants this time. Street life taught them to stay awake to stay safe, but now it feels more like alcohol or even just too much caffeine.

Tonight is a mess of burnt edges and bleach fumes, of paranoia and misplaced concern. But it’s also the last night, and somehow, in its own chaotic way, it feels like a goodbye.