Remembering my other visits, I did not wake him. When awakened, he cries.
I had no gift for him, just my presence. Was that enough? I took his hand. It was burning hot. Did he know I was there? I touched his face, his forehead, but they were cool. What did it mean? I don't know.
After a time a very nice attendant came in and told me how he was doing. That he is no longer eating or drinking. That he sleeps now almost all the time. That he is restless in his sleep, so they've put his bed in the corner so that he won't fall out. That the hospice people will come to visit on Thursday and offer some kind of comfort: backrubs, or whatever it is that they do.
As we spoke aloud he did not react. His roommate's incessant television blared midafternoon inanities at 100 decibels, but did not rouse him.
After a while they came to turn him and change his mattress. Something to make him more comfortable. I left then, wishing to retain at least a shred of dignity around my memories of him.
And I'd rather remember him at peace the way I left him. Not crying with tearless pain. Just asleep. Resting, and at peace.