What makes the toilet paper damp? I wonder, as I break a piece to wipe his mouth. Propped up in bed, He's a vision in cloth and corduroy on better days. The plump white rolls sit on the radiator. Steaming like soft chimneys. Ten years ago, he could have bared it. Today, with hands in knots, it's not so easy when he speaks in garbles, and the froth of spit sometimes graces a shoulder. Well-wishers remain concerned, while wiping with a handkerchief a little bit disgusted. But, they persevere. Because, his words are not of lighter days, or times he climbed a plastic slide, likely at the age of thirty just to reach his lover's lost stiletto. Maybe, he's forgotten? I wonder as I sit with him in his paper room of paper lamps. The world at his pajama feet. Enjoying pillow's cold too much. Now, he has all the grace of a merry Merman; when the lampshade spots the ghosts that sit under his eyelids. And he winces, when there's a weight placed lightly atop his head; thinking it's some shoddy helmet, from who knows where, or "what’s-his-name". Though he has the knack for soup and bread, sometimes, the spoon akin to soap, the lavender one he so despises, shakes him loose and makes me mop him. But, Today I thought, I'll hold his hand. When eating, Sleeping, Maybe tomorrow but- you never know. Actually, I never did. Outside, there is a dove. Its grey reminds me of his hair.
© Eve Redwater 2012