SIX o’clock, time for the unchanging start of a new day.

She snuggles down deeper into the soft blankets, in an effort to postpone facing the present and enjoy the last few moments of repose. Soon she will have to get up and bury herself in the relentless cycle of another day. He has already left the cool sheets and her warm side some short endless moments ago and he now shuffles around the house with a dustcloth in his hand as he wipes the sideboard, dining table, bookrack… in a compulsive sequence that marks the beginning of his day. The scraping of his confused feet is not alone in offending the morning’s tranquility; it is punctuated by the jarring crash of things that his distracted fingers find difficult to hold. There is no need for such exertion, but this daily chore imparts a semblance of continuity and calms his nerves as he tries not to lose the tenuous hold on his steadily deteriorating memory.

Gone are the days of lazy lingering together in bed when they lay in each others arms, confident they would always be together heart and mind in whatever the future could hold. He seldom remembers they ever shared such a time, he can barely recognize the stenciled moment at hand and take comfort in its recurring pattern. She clings on to the memory of what once was as she grasps at the past that gives meaning to the journey they now have to undergo. It is a past they once shared but one she now finds herself revisiting increasingly alone.