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Sunday, January 8, 2012

100 Words for Sunday, January 8, 2012


I awaken to the feeling of light on my face. Turning left, I see the darkened hallway and nearby the illuminated face of my clock radio. Four a.m. Then, turning, I see the source of the light; the nearly full moon shining through the clerestory window of my bedroom, kissing me awake. I see that the light is limited to the upper left corner of my king-size bed, like a postage stamp on a first class letter. I choose to do what I haven’t done these past eleven months. I walk around the bed to Bob’s side and climb in.
When I was admitted to the care facility yesterday afternoon, I saw Bob interacting with two care workers in the restaurant area. He was holding an open book. Cyra says,"We can clean that. I see, it's sticky."
Anna sees me and adds,"Bob, look. Look who's here to see you." In order for her to make eye contact with Bob, she has to bend her head, as Bob has had downcast eyes for the past two weeks, ever since he fell out of bed and cut his ear on the nightstand.Finally, he raises his head, glances at me and responds, "That's my wife." He still wants the book cleaned. Cyra tries to take ir from him, gently, telling him she will clean it and put it back in his room. Hesitantly, Bob relinquishes the book and walks toward me, arms outstretched and head up.

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