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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