Philip

Philip

I call him the bishop, for he does have a dignity about him,
so many years of suffering from this dreaded horrible disease,
yet he has always retained an air about him of kindliness and even blessing.
He has his days, when his moods are darker and can be difficult but he soon comes around to that gentle smile.

Some nights he looks at me and starts to talk in his confused way,
reaching out trying to communicate what he is experiencing but cannot.
His eyes fill up with tears of frustration at his predicament, his prison,
that from time to time he knows he is in. Yet the smile returns soon,
blessed forgetfulness brings momentary healing and his joy returns.

Sometimes it is like he is having a party in his room; it is so full of memories
and ghost from his past; parents, siblings, and perhaps many others that he sees.
One night he introduced me to the whole room, and I went around shaking hands,
which he thought something great, thinking that I could see them as well as him.

Like a child he will grab things, study them, and then tear them up, laughing,
wondering why we have to sometimes take his plaything away from him. He loves ice cream,
classical music, at least he used to, not sure anymore, so much gone that was there before,
only another ghost of sorts. His personality different from when he first became ill; he was very anxious and worried about everything, never quite at rest, now at least he has some freedom from that cross.

Only one brother left from a very large family, their family portrait on a stand near his bed.
All so young, now gone, one by one called home. His brother calls from time to time
to inquire how his is doing, laughing at the things I tell him, at peace that he could go
at any time. The old, or least many of them seem to be free of fear of their impending death,
or that of their loved ones.

He can still feel, have fun, smile, and laugh, have a temper tantrum, be stubborn just like
the rest of us, the only difference is his confusion, which has now come to be his every day life. So day by day we follow our paths, his crisscrossing mine in so many ways, so many years, with its suffering and joy, the meat and potatoes of our lives.

In the end, we will see that it is all good, the chaos, the struggle, all worth it. Some will say I am whistling in the dark, well, sorry I don’t think so.