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I Die a Little Each Time...


.. I hear her reading a children's book... and sounding out the words.

... when she carries two pairs of socks with her everywhere she goes.

... I ask if there's anything she'd like to talk about... and no, she can't think of anything. The moments of opportunity are slipping away.

... when she doesn't remember what day it is.

... when she stands at the microwave and cannot figure out what button to push.

... when she reads the same pages of the same book over and over again.

... when her head silently bobs up and down to some music playing internally, or some part of a tune is hummed incessantly.

... when she can't remember her birthday.

... when she looks at the designs of a postcard drawing that she should color, but just arranges the cards.

... when she doesn't know what to wear today because she has forgotten what we are doing... during the walk from the kitchen to the bedroom.

... when she organizes her colored pencils repeatedly... in no discernable pattern.

... when she reads every word of an advertisement about places we have been many times.

... when she doesn't remember my name.

None of this happens every day. Yet. But it does happen. And I die on the inside a little each time it does.

Note: The Country Group Restless Heart had a song called "When She Cries" about an unemployed man who was grieving when he secretly observed the impact of his struggles upon his wife-- who thought she cried without him knowing. I've never forgotten the last line, "..and I die a little each time, when she cries." My situation is different, but the feeling pretty much the same... the hundreds of little realizations that nick the heart each day.

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