The Old Man

We sit there, not silently by any means, but with the respectful reticence of a funeral.
Cushioning his body, are clouds caught in silk. Holding him up
from the terrors, of Mortal
limitations.

He is old.
Grandmother’s Grandmother remembers him, from her childhood,
as an Old Man.
Sliced strawberries and cubed cantaloupe,
reside on plate, resting on a pillow, sitting on an old oaken table.
A girl glides into the room and softly slides a towel
Across the man’s brow.
My heart beat quickens
She whispers something in his ear.
A small slit in his eye revealed, opening as he takes people in.
“Hello class,” time clicks by, measured by his slow breaths “I shall teach you much”
His breathing is slow, but expeditious in comparison to his words.
“But not today.”

Three hours, one for each statement,
we leave to return
another day.