It's not that I don't want to see him...

So it's not that I don't want to see him, I do. At least I think I do. But he's not the same anymore. I avoid him where I can. It kills me to admit this. I walk around him. Because I hate to see him this way. This confused, this lost, this sick. I don't want to remember him as this. I want to remember him as he was; strong, independent and wise.

So is it selfish that I avoid him in his last days?

Of course it is. Of course it must be.  I feel like he knows I hardly go to see him anymore. Even though his memory has become a bit blurry I think he knows I'm avoiding him. Maybe it's guilt talking. Maybe he doesn't know anything. He smiles when he sees me. We became close these last few years.

But I can't see him like this. Can't look. My eyes don't know where to go. The last few times I spoke to him I almost started to cry. I kept looking away. He knew. Maybe. Maybe he didn't. I feel his world has become dim now. Shafts of light coming in through the blinds in his mind. He has gone stubborn. Frustrated. Angry. This is what he has fiercely avoided all his life - dependence.

I don't know what to say when I see him. I don't have words anymore. I want him to take out photo albums and explain but I fear he doesn't have the patience anymore for that. I hate to see him this way. So I avoid. Look the other way. Try not to think about it. Write posts at my computer instead of going to see him.

What do I say anyway?

My limbs, my tongue locked.