He seems very distant and yet I think he’s here. His eyes stare into the nothing, as if he’s trying to see something far away. He’s only a shade of the person he once was and still he has that special presence.
I wonder what he still takes in. He sees, he hears, but what sticks? What triggers memories, what pictures does he see, flashing in his mind? Some old memories must come up. Every now and then there is a word, giving us a hint about him remembering things.
I don’t like it when people talk in front of him as if he’s not there. He is there, at least physically. I want to tell them to be quiet, not to talk like this in front of him. But I don’t. They’ve been with him for months, for years now, watching him slowly fade away. As close as I am and used to be, I’m only visiting.
He’s not just an empty body, an empty shell. He is still that special person and will always be. Even if he doesn’t remember. We do.
And when we hold hands and a tiny smile appears on his face I get that glimps of the spark in his eyes that once filled rooms. And I know that he is still there, somewhere inside…