That little boy is my father and that house is the one I visited my grandparents in when I was his age. Now I visit my father in the house I grew up in. He doesn’t recognize me. The good days are fewer. Less solace is taken from spending time and instead taken browsing through his library of books, marveling at how he signed each of them on the day he finished reading it — a time stamp of his knowledge. Lately, we are pretending to share a conversation, even though it is one sided. Usually, it’s a commentary on what I am doing and memories that certain books evoke.

Dementia is one of those things that spreads grief over indefinite time. Grief weaves with acceptance of the situation. There are days like today when I wish I could talk with him about finances, hiking, and politics. Sometimes I get a tinge of anger when I realize I didn’t take advantage of the time we had earlier. Then there are other days. Days when it simply is what it is, and that is that.
Thank goodness for family photos to remember the better days and dogs that just want love. ~shared by _@staddon