I read him poetry, and he cries. He's eighty two and has Alzheimer's. It's a joy being with him now, an opportunity to come from the heart and leave my mind, as his mind, at times, leaves him. I recite poetry with feeling. He loves the feeling behind the words. He can hardly speak at all, yet he understands a a lot. I talk to him as an intelligent man, and it connects with his memory of self-respect. He yearns to be respected, for people to see beyond his crippled mind, and see what he was and still is underneath it all. So I read, and he responds with broken words, tears, and a full heart.
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