Determined that Dick and I would continue to find one another, I sought out places where we might meet. Some people join with their loved ones in prayers or songs, some watch a ball game or a sunset together, and some simply fold laundry, side-by-side. I provided Dick with a life similar to the one we’d always shared. It was a textured life, interwoven with music, words, flavors, and touch.
I’d fish for Dick’s thoughts by dangling lines of language. I’d envelop him in nets of sound–jazz and classical music, mainly–and of color. On the wall opposite his bed, I hung a large, whimsical painting in deep reds and golds and greens, filled with a medieval cityscape of flag-topped towers and arched doorways.
Above his bed, I placed a framed Rumi quotation: “Wherever you stand, be the soul of that place.” I wanted Dick to remain standing in that place. To remain standing in his own person, despite the dementia. And he did.