When He Brushed Her Hair.

In the end, it was the way he brushed her hair.

Her hair was so very thin and fragile like her frame and mind. Bald patches were spreading and visible. But he brushed her hair with such gentleness, such kindness and respect, that one would almost think he was playing with spun gold.

His hand would gracefully run slim fingers through the hair and delicately caress her cheek as he did so. Tenderness lived in every brush stroke and every touch.

He was mindful of her earrings, earrings he had bought her long ago. Somehow, though she wasn’t really there anymore, anyone could tell these earrings suited her in every sense of the word. They hung perfectly on her countenance, shaped her face and brought vibrance with coloured stones of blue and green. Not once did he get the brush caught in these earrings. Not once did his fingers accidentally pull at them too hard or catch them wrong.

Occasionally he would stop his work of brushing or feeding or helping and would so tenderly cup her cheek and face. The look in his eyes was one of someone truly drinking in every ounce of what they beheld.

If beauty is in the eye of the beholder then he beheld a vision. A vision that neither age nor infirmity, accident nor injury, nor even dementia could tarnish.

At mealtimes in the home he sat with her. She in her high-backed chair, designed to support her posture and reduce the risk of pressure sores and choking. A discreet strap lay across her lap. He in an ordinary dining chair beside her, and when there was no room, he stood without complaint.

Everything about their meals stood in contrast to the room around them.

The home was a strange blend of comfort and clinical routine. A television droned in the corner, broadcasting programmes few followed. Meals arrived on wheeled trolleys that squeaked across the linoleum. The smell of overcooked vegetables lingered long after plates were cleared. Gloves and plastic aprons hung at stations along the walls, ready to be pulled on and discarded.

Some residents sat at tables alone with no one to even so much as smile at them. Others sat with members of staff assisting them to eat, something that became more of a perfunctory task than a dining experience. Some became highly distressed at mealtimes and cried, spilled their food or had to be escorted away from the dining area. Some sat and made passable conversation, but it was only ever surface and often due to the nature of their conditions could veer easily into territory of confusion and misunderstanding.

But for him and her, there seemed to be almost no need for communication because understanding was found in the very gazes they had for each other. Watching them was watching a conversation without words.

He would feed her with the same delicacy and respect with which he brushed her hair. Anytime even the slightest morsel of food was not wholly in her mouth and ended up on the corners of her lips or her chin he would immediately wipe it away. Even though the food she ate was pureed, as she had long since lost the ability to eat solid foods, he would find the things she liked and incorporate them into her diet. He knew of her fondness for cheese and if he could he would have folded it into every meal.

If patience is a virtue, for her, he had it in spades. She took a long time to eat, and this had aided her physical decline, and for a time had been worryingly losing weight. He would not stand for this and sat through hours and hours of breakfasts, lunches, dinners and snacks in order to ensure she ate. His patience seemed endless as there were times where she would only take a mouthful every 5 to 10 minutes and even then only the very end of the spoon would be clean. It seemed not to matter to him in the slightest, and his gaze on her remained unaltered.

Sometimes he would talk to her. He would talk in such a way that though she couldn’t respond and never would, no conversation ever seemed empty or void of meaning. Where there were those who would say “what’s the point, she doesn’t understand anyway and she definitely won’t remember.” He never entertained such thoughts - even for a minute.

Her eyes and countenance, though in reality they moved very little, were endlessly receptive in his presence. His voice was always soft, it had a warmth to it and a jovial lightness that altogether, regardless of topic, said “I’m so glad to be here. Here with you.”. Sometimes he would even make jokes and though only he audibly laughed, it was as though she was laughing too.

She was confined to chairs, hoists and beds, dependent on others for everything. Dementia had first taken her short-term memories, little things, little events, then it had taken her ability to do things alone, and eventually it took her body and her voice. She had so little left to offer. Yet watching them together, anyone could see she was still giving him everything.

Her eyes never left him when he visited, it almost looked as though she even tried to fight blinking. Her face, which couldn’t really smile anymore, when he would visit the corners of her lips would turn up and inward imperceptibly and it was as though her whole face was a glow. These were smiles and eyes and a glow that she had only for him. For him this made every visit worthwhile.

At night he would wait outside her door as staff hoisted her to bed. Once able to enter again, he greeted her like he was seeing her for the first time that day, one could think they had been parted for hours not mere minutes. The joy in their rejoining was never one sided and never forced or faked.

Once she was in bed he would come in and fix the pyjamas staff had dressed her in, sorting the collar or pulling them down, so they fit just perfectly. Again he would cup her face and brush her hair. Wanting her, even in sleep, to look her best.

At the very end of the day their parting had to happen, and if it was as painful for them as it is for observers then it is a painful parting indeed.

He would kiss her forehead and she would look up at him so strongly that no one could argue her speechless speech saying “don’t go”.

His reply would always be the same “I’ll be back tomorrow.” And he always was.

He would hold her face and look at her so reassuringly that all the comfort and tender kindness he had to offer was passed to her, filling her for a night of hopeful and peaceful sleep.

Hopeful for the start of tomorrow, when he would brush her hair