Pasta dough can be finicky stuff. It's probably the sixth or seventh pass through the machine until it starts coming together, this gorgeously smooth sheet of dough. At my shoulder, Mr. Marchesi peers at it, reaching out a tentative hand. I guide his hand to the dough, and he nods his approval. “That's all, dear. Just keep it damp, is all. We don't want it drying out. ” He turns around and feels his way back to his walker, which has a built-in seat.

Mr. Marchesi's just about blind. Cataracts, macular degeneration, blood clots- he's had them all. His eyes are cloudy, with a ring of red around the irises. His back is bent and his hands shake, but he still feels his way around the little resident kitchen, periodically attempting to cook something. It's not too safe for him, since he can only see shapes and has to cook by feel. Still, once in a while the Activities Director manages to carve out some time in her busy schedule to help him in the kitchen. Since my arrival, I've become his primary helper.

At the pasta machine, I turn the dial up two notches. Sensing that the sheet of dough is getting longer, Mr. Marchesi comes back around the table and holds out his hands. I drape the sheet over his hands while feeding the rest in, then slice it in half. “That's it, then?” he asks, nodding his approval. I switch out the attachments, in preparation for cranking out the fettucine. One of the marketing guys wanders in, pausing by the table. Ron raises his voice slightly, since Mr. Marchesi's hearing has also faded somewhat. “Whatcha making, Fred?” he booms out. Mr. Marchesi chuckles. “Fehtuhcheenee!” he says, putting as much Italian intonation into the one word as a man who has lived much of his life in Southern California can. I hand him one of the shortened dough pieces, and he feeds it into the machine by himself while I catch the noodles with a wooden spoon. When we're mostly done, his wife comes into the room, carrying a glass of white wine for him. Somehow, he always can tell when it's her, in spite of his spent vision. “Thank you, darling,” he says, drawing out the ar slightly. I finish out the rest of the fettucine, draping the noodles over a blue plastic drying rack. It looks like some bizarre tree by the time I'm done.“Quite a job, isn't it, Mr. Marchesi?” I ask, putting as much of a smile into my voice as I can. He nods. We get into a conversation about his nephew, who apparently is a Professor of Pathology at Yale.“I'm going to miss you when you're gone, Deborah,” he says, taking a sip of wine, “when do you go back to school?”

Mainly, he just needed someone to listen to him. Measure things out for him. Track down ingredients. Make him feel needed. I went to the kitchen to find him some baking soda, and was intercepted by one of the office workers. “Just tell him the baking powder's baking soda,” she says with a dismissive air. “He won't know the difference.” I resist the urge to glare and continue searching. Later that week, I walk in and find him in a crisp blue shirt, one I haven't seen before. “New shirt, Mr. Marchesi?” I ask. His face lights up. “D'you like it? My daughter brought it.” “I do! Looks good on you.” And it does, it compliments his stark white hair and manages to soften the damage to his eyes.

Eleanor's brow is always furrowed like she's thinking, and the deep lines don't go away even when she smiles brightly. She hums the same tune constantly- G, D, G, A, B, D- and sometimes, continues to C, B, E, F#, G. I ask her if she wants to go for a walk. “Sure!” Outside in the garden, she seems delighted with something- I just can't tell what. “Lookit those beautiful ones there,” she says, pointing vaguely toward some trees. “Aren't those gorgeous?” I smile and agree. She keeps humming. I try humming “The Star-Spangled Banner.” To my delight, she joins in. The same with “You're A Grand Old Flag”, “America the Beautiful”, and “God Bless America”. Emboldened, I try some old hymns. Nothing. And suddenly I feel like a heavy burden has been laid on me. Eleanor lives, but her body is little more than a shell. Can a soul waste away, like a mind? She, too, is God's creation...something she will probably never have the capacity to understand again.

Eleanor lives in Reminiscence, the advanced dementia and Alzheimer's community. It's separated from the rest of the building by a heavy combination-keyed door to prevent the residents from wandering out. Inside, there's an oppressive smell of medicine and illness, as well as a heavy stuffiness that reeks of something like despair. The staff is kind, hardworking, trained. Every physical need of the residents is cared for. But the air is warm, the chairs comfortable in a way that seems to only increase the blankness in their eyes.

“Well, I should probably get back,” she says, standing up. “My mother's waiting for me.” Faced with this classic sign of Alzheimer's, I say nothing but grab her hand to walk her back inside. I lead her to her room, where she promptly crawls into bed for a nap. I take a moment to admire the paintings hanging on her wall. They're well done. She painted them years before, a seaside scene and one with owls she managed to give comical expressions. I leave Reminiscence, keying in the combination and trying not to slam the door behind me.

Inexplicably, I feel guilty for leaving.