The Old Man at the Nursing Home He is left tucked away in a corner. The frosty glass door softens lounge patron, soap operas watch him shuffling memories. In his reserved armchair with a footrest, seated figure like Abraham Lincoln gazes with expression of gravity. His cloudy vision fills the room with ghosts, he’s given up on absent visitors, forgets them like misplaced days of the week. Family who do not want to face him see mirror of themselves in the future. With power of attorney, they pull strings. His autonomy is tamed and measured. Once he was a Roman…