The Grapes of Dementia

Romeo lying in bed. Me sitting on the floor, beside him. It's 8:00 in the evening and I'm visiting for the first time today.

Nothing to do but munch on some red grapes I brought from home. I pull one from the stem and toss it to Romeo, thinking he'll try to catch it in his mouth. But no, the thought doesn't occur to him. We giggle, and I pick up the grape that landed ungraciously near his call button, and try again.

This time I'm only a couple of inches away from his mouth. His eyes smile, and he opens his mouth like an eager baby bird waiting for a regurgitated dinner. I toss the grape in, and this time he "catches" it. Now it's his turn. I pull another grape, hand it to him, and he tosses it toward me. It's a foul ball, too far off field for me to catch in my hand, let alone with my mouth. No matter. I pull another and hand it to him. This time he feeds it to me.

We continue like this, taking turns "tossing" grapes to each other, for a few minutes until Romeo tires. He wants to sleep. I get up from the floor, dust myself off, and lean over his bed for a good-night kiss.

On the four-minute drive home, I am smiling and content. All is well. Grapes = abundance. Love = abundance. Dementia = abundance.