Skip had dementia at the end of his life. This is a repost.
It’s the middle of the night.
I feel the pressure of his weight on my chest,
the heat of his breath on my face-
he’s staring again.
Could it be he’s actually forgotten me?
My little old man is sundowning.
He gently touches my face.
Silently he beckons me to wake, and tell him who I am.