Sleepiness makes him cross, as it does me. But the sleepiness that assails him during breakfast is different. I try to keep him from falling into it. I don’t know why. Perhaps it is that image of ageing of failing of dying that I am attempting to smother. It is unkind of me. As is my irritation at him when he forgets things. I don’t like this descent. Not in him. I must be kinder.
