You sat in your wheelchair too weak to care about life’s swirl today. Ennui or malaise don’t quite describe what I see in your face, your eyes. When I speak you raise your hand in a gesture that says Sorry, too tired to listen. Finally We help you to bed, undress and comfort you with a cool water bath then a slow massage, your feet, your legs, Eric Satie music playing while we watch old home movies of you and Jack, 50 years ago running on the beach, laughing and clowning with your kids. I look at that young couple, slim, vibrant, full of joy and grace, then back to you as you lose consciousness and call out to that young man. There you are, holding his hand, here you are, reaching out for it again across time and space. August 31, 2013 - The day Joan died
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