Wheelchair.

Crutches only in the limited situations they had trained her to use them.

Yet there she was on cold tile.

A heavy skillet hissed on the stove.

My mother, Phyllis, stood over her.

“Please just give me my crutches.”

Clara’s voice was quiet.

My mother picked them up.

Then moved them farther away.

“When you finish the pie prep.”

A sack of potatoes rolled across the floor toward my wife.

The video ended.

I stared at my phone.

Then replayed it.