My aunt wrote this post about her grandpa, my great-grandpa.
Most days, he sat in a chair staring into space, his brain unable to make the connections of laughter and eye contact and meaning that it once had. His unshaven chin, hollow cheeks, and wild hair echoed dimly of the lively man I’d known as my grandfather. My grandma, a former hair dresser, faithfully brought her comb to try and tame his wild do, but he didn’t like it much.
Actually, he didn’t like anything much those days. The dementia had stolen him from us one-slow-day-at-a-time, and replaced his jolly warmth with violent reactions and confused arguments. It was like having a three-year-old in the family all over again.
But there were moments of clarity. He knew my grandmother most often. His sweetheart since fifth grade, he used to ride his pony down the railroad tracks to visit her, so his memory of her stretched back nearly his entire life…
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