I still have not written an obituary for my husband,


nor have I received much support from family,


except our sons. Our sons. Our sons.


Since he's been gone, I see little mannerisms,


subconsciously inherited ways of thinking,


as well as the blend of us in them.


I don't know what to do with


his least favorite bathrobe,


that I washed today and hung


on a brass and porcelain hook,


as if in waiting, for him, for him


to remember he didn't like it.


I hold onto this and far much


more, like my memories are large enough


for all of us. So his life mattered.


So that his last four years


and diagnosis of Alzheimers'


doesn't diminish who he was to just another statistic


among thirty five million others, worldwide.

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