Pre-Dementia Romeo Calls From the Nursing Home

It's near bedtime, and the phone rings. It's Romeo. Again, he asked one of the nursing staff to dial my home number. He hasn't been able to dial a phone for two years or so.

"Is everything okay?" I ask.

"Yes, everything is fine." His voice is clear. There is no hint of brain fog.

"I just wanted to hear your voice," he croons into the phone.

This is the Romeo who first wooed me. This is the Romeo whose voice is clear, confident, in charge, sexy. This is the Romeo I haven't heard in a very, very long time. It is the alpha Romeo with the sensitivity and the presence of a god.

"You sound great," I say.

"Do I? I don't feel any different."

"You sound like the Romeo I met five years ago."

There's a smile in his voice. "Really?

"Mmmmm."

We chat for 15 or 20 minutes. I soak up every bit of him that comes through his voice, his clear voice, his amazingly clear voice, his voice talking to me right now. I'll remember this call always. The night the old Romeo called. The night the old Romeo called because he wanted to hear my voice. The night the old Romeo spoke as the clear-headed, unfoggy Romeo.

Eventually, we hang up. Romeo, still the old Romeo, goes to sleep in his bed in the nursing home. And I fall asleep in my bed in my home, smiling, remembering.