Tale of an Alzheimer’s Patient
A true story
Fog in the morning, not the kind that lifts with dawn. Stickiness in his thoughts, where memories used to yawn. He traces wrinkles on his hand, map of a life unfurled, but locations fade like mirages, a story half-world.
His wife’s face, a puzzle, once etched in love lines, now a stranger’s mask, the smile a question, not a sign. He looks for the name, a bird trapped in his throat, words like butterflies escaping, feathers light and afloat.
The coffee he brews, a rite from another time, but the steam holds whispers, secrets lost in the climb. He stirs the sugar, a slow ballet of doubt and fear, is this the dance he learned, or a ghost step drawing near?
The newspaper rustles, titles blurring into haze, the world outside a kaleidoscope in a stranger’s gaze. He clutches at the date, an anchor in the tide, but yesterday and today, a river with no side.
His laughter rings hollow, a bell in a forgotten tower, echoing in hallways where shadows whisper and cower. He stumbles through the day, a ghost in his own skin, searching for a way, a whisper from within.
But in the quiet moments, before the shadows fall, a flicker of awareness, a memory’s gentle call. He sees her eyes, a lighthouse in the storm, and in that frail spark, her love keeps him warm.
For even in the fog, where memories move and stray, the heart remembers love, a beacon leading the way. He holds onto that light, a fragile, precious thing, a guy in his 30s, clinging to the spring.
© Shuvranil Sanyal, 2024
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