[originally written April 19, 2015.]
My father's Alzheimer's disease would now be called moderate. His experience of the world is less precise, less clear. His memories are no longer worlds of words, but fields of feelings.
Three years ago, he first told me the name of his Japanese girlfriend from when he was stationed in postwar Japan. Or one year ago, he remembered that his granddaughter's name was Violet, and it was she who frolicked on the hillside with her soccerball. That same year, he remembered the specific trees where we saw the amorous squirrels mating.
Now, that hillside is a misty memory about little girls. Those trees are about special squirrels.
We both still enjoy walking together in the park. He doesn't seem to remember my identity, but he speaks kindly of "Jeff" as someone special to him.
Today it was raining. Instead of going to the park for a walk, we went for a ride in the country. It has been decades since I was a child and my family would go for a Sunday drive in the country, when gasoline was cheap. The roads today were unfamiliar to me, as if I was the one losing memories.
But the experience was quite pleasant overall, as we drove through fields of feelings.