on the doors.
We locked away certain kitchen items.
We hid the car keys.
Some days he was almost the Frank Owen remembered.
He watched old westerns and complained that television had gone downhill.
Other days he wandered through the house asking where his wife was.
Sometimes fear turned into anger.
Once he knocked a coffee mug against the wall during a confused moment.
And every time his voice rose, Owen changed.
His whole body became still.
His thumb rubbed against his finger.
“Dad,” he would say quietly.
“You’re safe.
