He Is Still That Man

Even now
with memory fading like mist in the morning sun,
with words tangled,
and moments slipping away as soon as they come
he is still that man.

The man who reaches for his wallet when we’re at the checkout, because he’s always been the one to provide.

Even now, he tries not because he remembers the routine,but because deep inside, he still wants to care for me.

The man who used to bring me coffee in bed in the morning —
even if it meant spills down the hallway, even if I gently had to take that job back
because it was always his way of starting our day with warmth.

The man who notices the rubbish bins out on the curb and says, “Sorry I didn’t bring those in.” Even if they haven’t been emptied yet.
Because he still wants to protect, still wants to do his part.

The man who asks if I’m sitting next to him.
Who needs to see me, feel me near. Because even if he forgets my name, he knows where he feels safe.

Sometimes he asks, “What can I do for you?” And my heart tightens, because he doesn’t really know how anymore. But he still wants to.

That’s the kind of man he is.

Not perfect. Not sharp and strong like before.
But still reaching. Still loving.
Still him.

Dementia has taken so much: his words, his memory, his understanding of time.

But it hasn’t taken this:
his desire to love, to serve, to show up for me in the ways he remembers.

And so I remind myself , especially on the hard days,
that I’m not just caring for a man with dementia.

I’m loving a man who still, deep down, is the same one who’s always loved me.

Not in grand ways now. But in small, persistent, deeply human ways.

A hand held.
A seat beside me.
A bin brought in too early.
A wallet offered at the till.
A heart that still wants to be mine.

Through the fog, he is still that man. And I will love him through every moment of remembering and forgetting.