Dead Souls

We become caricatures of our former selves.  For some this happens in childhood, others later.

Years ago, on a trip to St. Albans, UK, I remember visiting Hans in the old age home.  The geriatrics seated quietly in a circle.  Each had a few cookies on a plate.  Crumbs accumulated on their lower lips, chins, and the front of their woolen jumpers.  At first, I was surprised the nurses had neglected to tidy the spilled crumbs.

We sat at a table outside with Hans. He had always held his head on his neck stiffly.  He picked up a newspaper, cocking his bespectacled head at an angle, focusing intently, licking his thumb before flipping the pages, and grunting as he always did when stumbling upon a particularly interesting bit of information.  But there was no doubt that he could no longer understand anything written on the page.