"Key West," I repeat.
"I've been there," he explains again. "In the Military. I was stationed there for two years."
Trying to not convey frustration at the repetitiveness, I smile and answer, "Yeah, you lived at the Truman Complex."
"I did?" he asks suddenly focusing on me.
"Yeah," I say patting his hand. "For two years."
"If you say so," he shrugs unknowingly.
My heart breaks.
Pictures of him as a younger man adorn the walls of the house that he's paid for ... one dressed in uniform standing under a Palm Tree at the Truman Complex in Key West.
Alzheimer's is a terrible thing to watch.
"Would you like to go back?" I prod.
"Where?" he asks suspiciously having spent part of the day visiting an Assisted Living facility he has no interest in though his family is desperate.
"Key West," I sigh.
"I've been there," he repeats ...
"You know what I really want Micheal," he says with a sudden clarity that shocks me out of frustration.
"No ... where?"
"I've already been everywhere," he says now holding my hand. "There's no place I want to go back but ..." the million mile stare returns ... "I'm ready to go."
Something in my throat jumps into my eyes and I quickly start rubbing them with the hand he's let go of.
"I know you are," I stammer. "God's getting things ready."
"I wish God would hurry up."
I laugh ... as much to bring life to the room as to keep my heart from breaking more.
He stares at me with focus again and asks, "Where are you going?"
