Memories of the Reverend

The night was exhausted by those who talk much more than they should. Even those who have importance in speech should be concise. I was supposed to be home sixty minutes ago but the talker my ride and I waited patiently trying my hardest to nod my head in the direction of the speaker.
I spent the evening in the company of my new acquaintance. He was born blind in 1917, about to turn 91 years of age, and beginning the preliminary stages of Alzheimer’s. We sat across from one another, chit chatting in a repetitive circle of questions.
“You go to choich (church)?”
“No, Rev. I don’t.”
“Well, don’t foiget (forget) God.”
Another regular:
“Miss?”
“yes?”
“Do you live here?”
“No Rev. This is your home.” pause…
“Ok. Buh-bye now.”
Perhaps the new circumstances of 24 hour watch had confused the consistency of his life. Ten days before I had been employed to watch over this amourotic nonagenerian, he had been found a block from his home in the middle of the night with no idea where he was going or what he was doing. Several details of the story were omitted I’m sure because I know that his whole life he has slept in nothing but a pajama shirt with his privates to the soft touch of his bedsheets. He stood stooped over in the middle of 24th street, illuminated by a single light post; his baby blue night shirt, his bald head, and his weathered, dangling privates hanging between his toothpick legs. This alarming event had preempted the required round the clock care and therefore employed me as babysitter to the Reverend.