Being a writer he was well versed in making a point. His computer screen was his canvas and his key board was his brush. The missing part was him; he was not there.
Suffering from a stroke made him what I was seeing then; a frail, nonverbal, paralyzed man.
After months of care he did recover, but mentally he got clouded. His fiction belongs to truth, he once believed. I saw the becoming of a truth.
Life is a stage with ongoing drama, everyone knows that. He was living in a truth or a fiction was living in him, no one knew. His eyes were silent so were his lips.
One day I sat next to his bed, he looked at me with a smile. I smiled back at him; no words, no sound, no nothing. Some feelings are too strong for words to carry and some are too pure to be touched by a word. A smile was returned by a smile, with a feeling of I care but I can’t.