Skin Like MIne.

His skin is so much like mine, reminiscent of our father's; freckled, with pimento loaf thrown in. Our eyes are similiar, but his are cast downward. I try to get him to meet mine, but there is a vacancy there. A small smile graces his lips for a moment, disappears, and I wonder if it was ever even there. He stands, and then wanders from room to room trying to find his wife, his lifemate, now his only constant in this place called dementia.

I remember calling him to ask spiritual questions. The wise answers he would supply. The laughter that would erupt at his dry wit. Thirteen years my senior, I didn't feel as if I really got to know him until I was having children and his were almost out of the house.

I help him thread his belt through loops of the loose fitting pants that hang about his hips. His eyes again avoid mine, he is ashamed, embarrassed, I can feel it.

I want to slap my six year old son. Isaiah is snottily asking, "Why are you staring at me?!" I try to speak sternly to him when we're alone and end up crying myself.

I need to gather some dignity for everyone involved here. How do I accomplish this?