|
By redplasticroses Date: 2007 Jul 26 Comment on this Work [[2007.07.26.06.55.15009]] |
|
In his mind he is still the man who worked in a mahogany paneled office dined in the finest restaurants and tangoed till 2 am he served in the WWII married his college sweetheart was head of a company and the life of a party he is never without a tie even now He reads the Wall Street Journal Time magazine and large print books the pages never turn he once knew my first and middle name now he calls me Lillian, Doris or the flavor of the day he is always delighted to see me his smile radiant his hand shake as genuine as first love his eyes never leave mine He fears being yet another white haired man with soft hands sitting quietly in the long autumn sun watching cloud formations drift by as the wind secretly replays love's last gasps in his ears wondering where the years went wishing he could die before an easel or in the arms of a woman who loves him wishing even now, for a woman whose breasts sag whose heart still beats loud warm flesh against flesh as familiar as his face against her cleavage fast forward many years his face against a cold window pane fearing yet another winter alone in his room is a canvas his last work in progress he dabbles in oils moves it around to catch shadows and yet another sunset as if it were his last he says it is to let the sun in the warmth love energy all the things that his aging body lacks he hobbles a few steps away both hands gripping his walker his eyes fill with pride as he asks me what I see in his painting it matters not what I say dementia makes every day new the painting in progress has been a million different things a blackbird on a wooden fence at dusk two boys and a frog at the water's edge a sailboat at sunset a baby in his mothers arms Paris after the war each time he is delighted that I see it just as he does that day but each day before I go his long term memory returns and with tearful eyes he tells me he is painting it for the woman with hair like mine not too short or too long a wonderful shade of red like an autumn sky that melted on her head he knows she'll return to see his painting he points to the corner of his palette a dried pile of "autumn" waits there along with his eyes his soft hands his memory of a woman who loved him when time stood still |