“Where you going?” I hear him as I step toward the door.
I turn and step toward the room ready to comfort his fears, reassure him about my constant attention. A dying man needs such comfort.
“Well that’s alright then.” He is not looking at me when he talks. His eyes are aimed at the window in the corner of the room. My presence is not necessary as he takes in the words of some invisible conversationalist. One who offers to sit with him.
“Where’s John? I said, where’s John?” His vision must be somewhat hard of hearing or maybe he is ignored in his illusions as often-happened in life.
I lean into the doorway as he calls for another dead soul. If am noticed, do I perform the litany of the deceased, Uncle John, Aunt Bea, Mama? Does he know who I am tonight? Are there any answers in his dreams?
“I’m just playing.” He was famous for the tease followed by the apology.
I watch his lips pucker. Hmmm, hmmm, smack, a loud noisy kiss for someone, as the tongue protrudes slightly his grin breaks out. My mother worried that he was always too good with the ladies.
Then there is his laughter. Briefly, I forget the chores of living with him – memory loss, diapers, medications, hopelessness that feeds our mutual frustrations that gives life to frequent angry exchanges. Laughter tastes sweet.
Daily he gets smaller, curling up on top of himself in the too short hospital bed. I try to maneuver him into my own idea of comfort. I straighten his legs. I put a pillow under his feet that allows the size twelve monsters to hang over the edge without being aggravated by the metal end. But he grunts when I touch his legs. I had prepared myself for the steady whiney moan that he has told me means nothing. My hesitation is only temporary. He doesn’t waken and I am determined.
Uncurled he is 6’1″, 100 lbs. more or less, with it being less since the illness and my cooking. He is even more the stick man than the one I remember from my childhood. He has lasted longer than the six months they projected, in the last few days he has been less here with me and spend more time with the past. But at least he sleeps, sleeps in noisy conversations that bring him friends, family and laughter.