The lion knows not what is. He ignores all smooth, familiar places; appears immune to any routine that dares enter his norm of confusion. Sleep bullies him awake each night; prompts everyday risk taking which threatens existing well-being. A life-long athlete, he now prefers bed over motion; shows no interest in food or friendship. Wandering is embraced as ally; care givers are tagged suspicious and avoided as much as possible. It’s year three of a dementia that has him missing in action though bodily here. Still she shows each a.m. to aid with the basics of lengthy, clueless days. Depression has nailed her numb which triggers raging rants that often isolates much-needed support. Music, she discovered by chance, is the one therapy able to dance up token notes of recall. An aide lends a bruised iPod; shares sites and passwords to select, oldie genres. She streams the melodies outward as shadows decimate light and poke at the monsters under his bed. She wraps rhythmic fingers round his shrinking wrist; taps the beat into his ever weakening pulse. Strangely this seems to revive them both; sparks the punch-drunk hope that he is here, in this moment, no matter that The lion knows not anymore what is.