Oh so nervously, I sit across from this shell of a man, pale impression of his former glory, those younger days no one remembers. He doesn't even remember. Because he doesn't remember, his kids won't remember. Dead before his heart stops.



Endless cycle of repetition and "oh, I've already said that? Who are you? What was I saying again?" But he's off and going again before you can remind him, same shaky voice to match those shaky hands before he whimpers and ask for his dead mother again. She's been gone 30 years, and she's re-expired every day for the last two years in the wrinkled eyes of this child before me. "She's dead" they reply, and he griefs again before he forgets that she's gone.



But there's one story that stays still as he spins it, one story where he seems present and vibrant again, remastered, technicolor. Ask him about the world.



"Oh, yes, I've traveled the world." He says to me. "Pretty impressive for a poor country boy like myself, isn't it? Yeah, I've seen the world." His weary eyes wander backwards in the river of time, back to where his mind was right. To the time before he lost his wife, the time before he forgot that his family is dead and gone and there's only him. The time before he forgot that he was forgetful.



He pats my knee. The smile of a very much alive young man stretches his facial features into something distantly handsome, something I don't recognize. Something happy, something that rarely crosses his face, because who can be happy when you forget all the time? Who can be happy when the faces of those you love become unrecognizable, even though some where in your head you want to tell them you don't want to lose them, and ask them not to leave you, pretty please. But you can't say it, cause they're strangers now, aren't they?



"Yes, yes, I've seen the world. Impressive for a poor country boy like myself," he states again. "Singapore, Italy, Sicily...Hell, I've seen the Statue of Liberty way up in New York! Isn't that something?" He proudly states, like he doesn't realize that these days, Sicily is in Italy, but that doesn't matter cause in his head, he's back in that time where Sicily was it's own country.



Smiling as warmly as possible, I extend the invitation for friendship, not by words but with my eyes. Eyes are the only thing that have a hard time lying. "Out of everything you've seen, what's your favorite?" I say, flashing a sun-bright smile. A smile that doesn't betray the sorrow I feel for him, the pity, the pain. At that moment I hurt enough for the both of us.



"Hmm...", he mused, and in that moment he looked like every ones grandpa, like he wasn't afflicted. Normal. It looked good on him. "The red wood trees up in California. Did you know there was a hollowed out log that I could walk through standing up? Standing up! How 'bout that...." and then the light faded. The healthy glow fled and he was frail again, frail and hobbling to take his medication at the nurses cue.



Slowly,I let his answer sink in, smiling a genuine smile to myself. I slowly got up and walked to the man and his attendant. Patting his arm, I said good bye.



"Who are you?" He said. I left without another word.