He makes up words as he goes along. The names of objects, people, occupations. Sometimes he forgets their names. So, he invents new ones. He gets frustrated, when you have no clue what he is talking about. He tries not to show it, but sometimes the feeling settles deep within him.
I remember the first time I heard him ask for a swizzle stick. So, what is a swizzle stick? I want to help him, but I do not know how. Finally, after many motions and hand gestures I get what he is trying to say. A straw. He wants a straw. No drink, just a straw. He just wants a swizzle stick.
Walking into his kitchen I search for a swizzle stick. I find a pack in a drawer under the sink. They are unopened and old style. They are not the modern twist and bend. Dust covers the box. It had been a while since this house had a good cleaning, but who would do it?
They want to take him away. Put him in a nursing home where he can get the care he needs, but he fights it. So here I am, helping in any way I possibly can.
I give him his swizzle stick and almost laugh. He wads up tiny pieces of paper and shoots them at me. The swizzle stick is shooting what he calls swizzle stuffing.
It takes a lot of his breath to blow, but he is having fun. I love the toothless grin he has as I try to dodge the spit wads. Excuse me the swizzle stuffing. Soon his grin turns to laughter as I play along. He is happy. An old man with a little boy’s heart.
The mood does not last long. It never does. He can switch moods like the weather outside.
The laughter stops, and the swizzle stick drops to the floor. I know I should pick it up, but not yet. Not until I understand what is going on in his mind.
He finds a point to focus on and stares. Just stares. His breath comes in slight wisps, but it is not dangerously so. What does he see? What visions pass before his eyes? Where has his mind journeyed?
He looks so sad. Lonely. Forlorn. I just want to hold him. Hold him tightly and let him know things will be all right. But will they?
He tears up. I can see his eyes fill with tears and I want him to be able to cry on my shoulder, but he will not let me hold him. He will let no one. He says forget the pity. He has his pride. He tries to stop the tears from falling, but he cannot. I just have to let him cry till he stops.
It does not last long. His tears disappear, and he does not even realize he had been crying.
“You are not Margaret. Where is my Margaret?” He knows but had forgotten. Margaret had been dead for months now.
You see, they had been out enjoying the spring weather. It was their 30th wedding anniversary. They were old, but not real old. 60 something.
Their love had been so true. Driving down the road not a care in the world just the two of them. It could not be avoided. He could not stop, nor slow, nor anything. A drunk driver hit them head on at a high rate of speed.
A major crash. Sometimes he has nightmares and he relives the crash. Sometimes he cries and begs Margaret to wake up. Sometimes he talks about the blood. So much blood. But that is only in his sleep.
When he is awake he thinks of swizzle sticks and swizzle stuffing.
Will he ever recover. Only God knows.
© Cynthia Clark
Sad beautiful poem, i loved it. PS my wife is a Margaret, but she goes by Peggy. This year is 45 for us.