If you had the most beautiful man or lover in the world and they loved you too… if their eyes still lit up when they saw you, after a year in the dementia ward. If all you wanted was for them to come home. And if they uttered, slowly, with lots of misslips, because words don’t work for them much any more, “So when can we go back, babe, back to where we used to live?”
And the answer you give is, “when the snow melts.” But he doesn’t know melting and he doesn’t know anymore what snow is.
Your most beautiful man.
Then he picks up your hand and asks, “Is this yours? It is very nice.” And counts your fingers. One and two are easy, three comes….four, kind of mispronounced, then after a long time a jumbled five.
Your most beautiful man, entertaining you, making you laugh by games with the cheezies, so pleased that you laugh, his love, your love, still there.
Soon you slip away while he is distracted, and go to the car and cry before you drive home to where we used to live.
Empty. Your most beautiful man is gone away but waiting lovingly for you.