The Dolittles.

A woman and her husband with dementia

He sat there 

eating the dinner. 

She sat opposite 

forking in the meat, 

eyeing him, 

trying to imagine him 

as he was younger: 

full of energy, 

keen to do things, 

get on with matters. 

Now he sat there 

eating child-like, 

eyes tired, 

mind elsewhere. 

She ate with little enthusiasm, 

just to keep alive, 

and why she did that 

she didn’t know. 

He lifted his eyes 

and gazed at her 

and gave her a smile, 

a childish smile, 

as if they shared a secret. 

She smiled back 

and it pleased him. 

He ate small mouthfuls 

as if he had forgotten 

how to eat. 

He held his utensils 

as if he had only 

just learnt to hold them. 

She looked away 

and thought of him 

as he had been: 

a manager of a factory, 

on the ball, intellectual; 

now he could barely 

do his shoelaces 

or tie a tie. 

She was glad 

when the carers came 

in the morning to help 

wash and dress him. 

She didn’t think 

she would cope otherwise. 

He stopped eating 

and look at his fork 

as if he’d not seen one before, 

and turned it

 around and round. 

She watched him 

sitting there 

twisting the fork around. 

And his voice muttering 

And a sad, childish, 

hurting sound.