Prologue
If only I could remember the last real conversation I had with my father before the Alzheimer’s took his mind, but I cannot.
He told me it was like a fog and everything he knew was right at the edge of this haze. Sometimes he could see what he was trying to think of and just when he was going to grab hold of what he wanted to say, he would lose it to the drifting fog. But he would know it was right there, just out of reach.
Like how fog can filter in, in tiny increments and you know it’s getting dim but you can still see until, in one breath, you cannot; my dad slipped from me just like that.
