I am not sure if this is due to a failing memory or simply the passage of time. I haveonly one picture of him, and this too has faded. In another ten years it will be goneand so will I, and his memory will be erased like a message in the sand. If not for mydiaries, I would swear I had lived only half as long as I have.
Long periods of my life seem to have vanished. And even now I read the passages andwonder who I was when I wrote them, for I cannot remember the events of my life.
There are times I sit and wonder where it all has gone.
"My name," I say, "is Duke." I have always been a John Wayne fan.
"Duke," she whispers to herself, "Duke." She thinks for a moment, her foreheadwrinkled, her eyes serious. "Yes," I say, "I'm here for you."
And always will be, I think to myself.
She flushes with my answer. Her eyes become wet and red, and tears begin to fall. Myheart aches for her, and I wish for the thousandth time that there was something Icould do. She says:
"I'm sorry. I don't understand anything that's happening to me right now. Even you.
When I listen to you talk I feel like I should know you, but I don't. I don't even knowmy name.
"She wipes at her tears and says, "Help me, Duke, help me remember who I am. Or atleast, who I was. I feel so lost."
I answer from my heart, but I lie to her about her name. As I have about my own.
There is a reason for this.
"You are Hannah, a lover of life, a strength to those who shared in your friendships.
You are a dream, a creator of happiness, an artist who has touched a thousand souls.
You've led a full life and wanted for nothing because your needs are spiritual andyou have only to look inside you. You are kind and loyal, and you are able to seebeauty where others do not. You are a teacher of wonderful lessons, a dreamer ofbetter things."
I stop for a moment and catch my breath. Then, "Hannah, there is no reason to feellost, for Nothing is ever really lost, or can be lost, No birth, identity, form‐‐no objectof the world, Nor life, nor force, nor any visible thing;... The body, sluggish, aged, cold‐
‐the embers left from earlier fires, ... shall duly flame again;"
She thinks about what I have said for a moment. In the silence, I look toward thewindow and notice that the rain has stopped now. Sunlight is beginning to filter intoher room. She asks:
"Did you write that?"
"No, that was Walt Whitman."
"Who?"
"A lover of words, a shaper of thoughts." She does not respond directly. Instead shestares at me for a long while, until our breathing coincides. In. Out. In. Out.
In. Out. Deep breaths. I wonder if she knows I think she's beautiful.
"Would you stay with me a while?" she finally asks.
I smile and nod. She smiles back. She reaches for my hand, takes it gently, and pulls itto her waist. She stares at the hardened knots that deform my fingers and caressesthem gently. Her hands are still those of an angel.
"Come," I say as I stand with great effort, "let's go for a walk. The air is crispand the goslings are waiting. It's beautiful today." I am staring at her as I say theselast few words. She blushes. It makes me feel young again.
She was famous, of course. One of the best southern painters of the twentiethcentury, some said, and I was, and am, proud of her. Unlike me, who struggled towrite even the simplest of verses, my wife could create beauty as easily as the Lordcreated the earth. Her paintings are in museums around the world, but I have keptonly two for myself. The first one she ever gave me and the last one. They hang in myroom, and late at night I sit and stare and sometimes cry when I look at them. I don'tknow why.
And so the years passed. We led our lives, working, painting, raising children, lovingeach other. I see photos of Christmases, family trips, of graduations and of weddings.
I see grandchildren and happy faces. ! see photos of us, our hair growing whiter, thelines in our faces deeper. A lifetime that seems so typical, yet uncommon. We couldnot foresee the future, but then who can? I do not live now as I expected to. And whatdid I expect? Retirement. Visits with the grandchildren, perhaps more travel. Shealways loved to travel. I thought that perhaps I would start a hobby, what I did notknow, but possibly shipbuilding. In bottles. Small, detailed, impossible to considernow with my hands. But I am not bitter.
Our lives can't be measured by our final years, of this I am sure, and I guess I shouldhave known what lay ahead in our lives. Looking back, I suppose it seems obvious,but at first I thought her confusion understandable and not unique. She would forgetwhere she placed her keys, but who has not done that? She would forget a neighbor'sname, but not someone we knew well or with whom we socialized. Sometimes shewould write the wrong year when she made out her checks, but again I dismissed itas simple mistakes that one makes when thinking of other things.
It was not until the more obvious events occurred that I began to suspect the worst.
An iron in the freezer, clothes in the dishwasher, books in the oven. Other things, too.
But the day I found her in the car three blocks away, crying over the steering wheelbecause she couldn't find her way home was the first day I was really frightened.
And she was frightened, too, for when I tapped on her window, she turned to me andsaid, "Oh God, what's happening to me? Please help me." A knot twisted in mystomach, but I dared not think the worst.
Six days later the doctor met with her and began a series of tests. I did not understandthem then and I do not understand them now, but I suppose it is because I am afraid
to know. She spent almost an hour with Dr. Barnwell, and she went back the nextday.
That day was the longest day I ever spent. I looked through magazines I could notread and played. games I did not think about. Finally he called us both into his officeand sat us down. She held my arm confidently, but I remember clearly that my ownhands were shaking.
"I'm so sorry to have to tell you this," Dr. Barnwell began, "but you seem to be inthe early stages of Alzheimer's .... "
My mind went blank, and all I could think about was the light that glowed above ourHeads. The words echoed in my head: the early stages of Alzheimer's . . .
My world spun in circles, and I felt her grip tighten on my arm. She whispered, almostto herself: "Oh, Noah... Noah..."
