Repaired

Competing thoughts cascade through his mind, carving barren trails.

He feels estranged from home.
He remembers
when he was respected, revered almost, and could do no wrong.
Back then, he was handsome and beautiful.
Capable of small miracles and worthy of domestic praise.

Now, he straddles time in his mind,

wondering when his sartorial eloquence went silent;
and her laughter began to shun his humour.
In the fog of uncertainty, he remembered sadly
when his words no longer mattered;
and his mature wisdom was discounted;
when he supposedly took permanent leave of his senses;
and required an intervention, an overhaul.
When did he become the dull ageing novice,

incapable of understanding nuances,
like following a simple grocery list, 

or too prone to bouts of stupidity?

He remembers well
when he went colourblind
and lost his footing;
when he discovered he talked too much;
when doubt began to choke his confidence.

He recalled with anxious reluctance when she armed her toolkits.
It was time for a fresh coat of personality paint.
A touch-up here and there to liven up his receding senses.
Firm hands to readjust his priorities.
A soft hammer to the head to restore common sense;
and a few well-placed verbal nails between the ears to steady his focus.

Finally, he no longer recognises his bipolar personalities,
but each favours happiness over being right.
He embraced his creeping incompetence and deficiencies.
Because he understood, only she could save him from himself
and repair him.

Of course, she knows best.
Thank God for small mercies!