My Burt

Burt looks through his intense old man’s eyes, with a seriousness that is touching. The look is fully reminiscent of the boy in him.

Like that boy, he is sorting out the ways of the world.

Conversations that draw simple and astonishing conclusions flow much of the day. He has lots of questions and gets many answers.

He talks to someone and to noone in particular. He is not dependent on any of us as interlocutors.

His eyes have become deep set as the structure of his skull and face elongated.

His cheek bones are more pronounced, underscoring the intensity of his gaze.

Intensity and seriousness are not usually linked to childish as a descriptor.

Nonetheless, my Burt has that innocent quality now.

I find it engaging. In fact, it melts my heart.

He is no longer difficult. Some days, he sleeps a lot. I no longer worry that he’ll be up and active all night.

He likes when I tell him I love him but he generally no longer responds. I can get a smile of pleased surprise sometimes.

He makes no demands as he once did. In fact, we have to assess that perhaps he’s thirsty or needs a meal. He makes no complaint at the red unhappy irritation of his skin.

He’s only secure in his bed and when we shift him, he worries at being displaced. This is the only time he reacts sharply. He flares up, seemingly angry, but actually scared at being moved.

He might call out quietly but insistently for me on occasion. Sometimes the calling out is from his sleep, sometimes not.

He is sweet mostly. After he flares up, angry at being repositioned, he will resort to his friendly self, and thank the people he cursed when he was afraid.

The thanks may come with a handshake. He likes to hold a hand in that remarkably strong grip.