Never

He tied the neck of the plastic bag. To keep it warm, he explained. A small gesture, but I note it nonetheless.

I hadn't known what to expect, and I didn’'t know how hard it would be to be there.

There is something indescribably sad about watching an old man in a wheelchair, the planes of his face stark against the stretched papery skin, push an empty cup away with feeble pokes of his cane, because he cannot stand up and push it away as you would, if your body had not betrayed you by aging. I looked away, oddly ashamed, from more than one expression of naked longing mingled with sorrow, because they had no one sitting by their side. It felt so jarring, to see relatives in their brightly colored festive clothes, standing around the a resident in his drab plain everyday clothes, left out of the conversation as his relatives discussed the celebrations that their grandfather did not experience.

A young man, in the prime of his life, and an old man, who has left his prime behind. Time has stolen it away, much as it chips insidiously at the integrity of his cognitive facilities.

I do not know what to say. What do you say to someone who may not recognize the person who comes to visit him, who is sometimes there, and sometimes not? Who may or may not reply? How are you feeling? Are you happy? The words would be pointless, and might be unneccesarily cruel because I cannot do anything even if the answer is no. The ordinary rules of conversation no longer apply, and I feel lost. I watch as his eyes drift between times and places.

He urges him to eat, he touches his arm sometimes. You can feel the grief in the air, of those who cannot go home. You could drown in it, touch it, it's so tangible. I blink a lot, or keep my eyes wide open. No wonder my grandmother refuses do do anything which might even hint at the diea, although we would never, ever.

Do you remember, when you used to bring me mee goreng? he asks him. The eyes drift for a moment, and I think that maybe he will not respond, then they slowly fix on him, and a smile lights up his eyes as he finds footing on recognition and memory. Yes, he says. And lontong too.

Sometimes he has to repeat himself. Sometimes he doesn't answer. I still don't know what to say, and sit there, attempting to radiate goodwill and feeling a little stupid at how little I can do.

You feel such unbearable sadness when you come here, he tells me later. But yet, he goes. It is, he says, the least he can do. He tells me memories of him, and how the roles have reversed. It msut be heartbreaking. But yet, he comes. I am glad he does it despite that. Is it any wonder then that I love him the way I do?