Look At The Birds

He lay beside her in bed as I enter the room, tenderly caressing her hair while kissing her bare shoulder.

"Hey," he says to her and the word hangs in the air, filling the room with desperation disguised as hope.

A black woman with full moons in her eyes watching them smiles at me.

"Don't go," the man tells the woman.

She sighs and it almost becomes a moan but falls short.

"Don't ..." he whispers, kissing her sweaty forehead.

The black woman quietly slides closer to me and I put my arm around her.

"What's that smell? Can't you smell that smell?"

Rock lyrics play in my head as I try to identify the odor ... a stench of mothballs mixed with cherry syrup and mildew.

He buries his head between her breasts and she moans.

He sobs.

No longer able to contain myself, I touch his shoulder and he jumps, stares trying to recall who I am, then calls me by name.

"Micheal," and I've never heard it said this way ... in desperate relief.

"Let's get coffee," I whisper.

Our black friend rushes to make ready as I help him out of bed.

The Nurse arrives and rushes to the woman in bed.

Over coffee, he smiles, says he's glad I'm there, and asks, "Why are you here?"

Dementia is a funny thing and I answer, "We need to check on how much seed there is in your bird feeder. You love watching the birds."

"Yeah, I do," he gleefully says like a twelve year old.

And the woman dies.

The Nurse sobs at the sound of a breaking home that will never be full again.

"You want to ..." I start but with a clarity of voice and a presence of mind I haven't seen in a long time he clearly says, "No. She's gone."

Wiping tears from me eyes I can't find my voice.

"Look at the birds," he says and that's what we do when they take her away.