One can remind one's self that the person has had a good, long life. A conscience life full of learning, love, maybe lust, certainly children, friends, work and some play. Grandchildren and even two generations beyond those grandchildren. One can pick out the kernels of truth in the muttered, garbled, rambling speeches. "Beautiful, curly hair.". Is that person speaking of a sister, child, grandchild? It is not for us to know.
At least the ramblings say there is still breath in the body. The stories fused together in nonsense sentences are like time lapse photos of the life lived. Photos out of sequence as if the photos were all dropped on the floor. Scattered and mixed together. Crumpled in some cases into an unrecognizable tale.
Then came the morning after a night filled with more silence than talking. A night when breathing was shallow and false teeth chattered with each breath. The morning when one steps out of the room for a few moments. Just a few moments. One returns and the breath of life is gone. January 28, 2015, 7:25 AM. And the life was over.