ditto

Rich is sinking.

Today he ate some supper. I fed him a small wedge of quiche, a few pieces of yam, some grains of rice. Yesterday he still tried to use his left hand, with some success. Today the effort was gone.

And he slept, a lot. For the first time. He never slept during the day.

He didn't say much.

"This sucks."

Couldn't argue with that.

And when Jeff, the social worker, stopped by and held his hand, and asked why he was in the dining room and not outside, Rich had a quick answer.

"Because the Fibonacci numbers are better here."

I laughed. Jeff looked at me, uncomprehending.

"Look at a sunflower," I said. "Or find a physicist to explain."

So I hold onto yesterday, when Rich didn't say much, either, except one sweet eruption.

"I love you so, so much. More than anything."

I held his hand.

"Ditto," I said.

He didn't laugh. This, for years, was our shorthand for expressions of affection.

"Say it," he said.

I hesitated. Because I didn't want to cry. But I did.

"Thank you," he said.

And now I think of all I need to thank him for, but there's no time left.

Candace