the goddamnedest weakest memory

When I arrived at Dad’s on Thursday, I found him searching for matches to light his cigar. When I steered him to them, he called me a “genius.”

“Did we have a session at 1am?” he asked me. “No, but I was here yesterday,” I told him. “We did it then?” he asked. “Did what?” I was totally confused. “Gathered together.” “Kate S. and I and you were all here yesterday,” I told him.

Dad’s really struggling with his expressive speech these days. He’s making up words sometimes, as in “I slurved a lot. I didn’t take near as many exercises as I should.” He’s very aware of it. On Thursday, he said “My speech has not gotten very good, it’s gotten bad.”

When Kate S. told him on the phone that we’re having his Father’s Day dinner on Friday, he wanted to know, “whose father?” After many explanations, he seemed to be catching on a little. “Am I related to you?” he asked me. “Yes, you’re my Dad,” I told him. “That’s what I thought,” he said.

Later, he wanted to know what was on the menu – “Stuffed peppers, black beans, salad, and ice cream cake,” I told him. “I may chuck the salad and eat a little more,” he said, meaning that he would eat extra dessert!

Watching me bake the cake, which I did ahead of time so it would be totally cooled and not melt the ice cream layers, he asked “how long have you been doing this?” “A long, long time,” I told him. “I have the god-damnedest weakest memory in existence. I can’t remember anything,” he said.

“I’ve never missed one of these dinners,” Dad said. “It would be hard to miss one, since they’re held in your apartment. You’d have to hide under the bed.” At that, Dad laughed hard.

“Voila, la chat!” says Dad, watching the cat stroll from her bed in corner to the food dish. He still uses French from time to time, especially at mealtimes, for some reason.

Dad is reaching for something on the table, groping around. “Left, left, forward, getting close,” I say, until he gets it. It’s a strange feeling, trying to remotely pilot somebody else’s hand.

I’m getting ready to leave, when Dad says, “Oh, that’s right, you don’t live here, do you?”