Alzheimer's Vigil

He said: So, you finally made it across the pond.
         I saw you coming,
         but I couldn't reach you.
         I was waiting for you.
         Where were you last night?
         What is that, over there? (he points)
         Can you see it?
         The Suburban wouldn't start.
         I don't know where it is.
         I couldn't find the way.

She said: Yes, I made it across the pond.
         I knew you were waiting.
         You know I can't come here in the dark,
         but I come every day -
         in the morning and the afternoon.
         I don't see anything out there.
         Your Suburban is at home.
         I put it in the garage.

He smiles, pleased that she took such good care of his van.
She sits, quietly, by his bed.
He speaks of his apparitions.
Her sad, lonely eyes glance at me.
I see her pain as she lovingly pats his shoulder,
knowing that he'll never come home again.
While he lives in days of the past,
she ponders the future without his step on the stair
or the echoes of his voice filling the rooms of their home.

As I leave his room
He says:
         I can't find my shoes . . .
She says:
         The doctor doesn't want you to wear them right now . . .