I can still fit under the furniture, crouch behind curtains, squeeze into narrow spaces, listening. I know where everyone is all the time. I can distinguish each voice in this house. Disease has left me mute. Too soon, my hearing will vanish, but I can still read lips. When my sight goes, and that is a certainty, I will still be able to smell the fear and, yes, the happiness. Illness will spread to my nose and then I will be left with only touch to discover the secrets around me.
That is why I have my hand on your leg. I'm practicing.
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