As of late, my father’s memory has been getting worse and worse. It started with the occasional bout of forgetfulness, with more and more words staying on the tip of tongue.

“I was walking the dog the other day and he just started goin’ mad, barkin’ at those…those…infernal little pests, what were they called? The ones with the bushy tails?” he would say, frustration mounting as he couldn’t remember for the life of him.

“Pa, don’t you mean squirrels?” I would offer gently, trying to jog his memory.

“Squirrels! Right! Those pesky little buggers, they were all over the crosswalk that day…” and he would rattle off into his story with no further incidents. Everyone has those moments when they just can’t think of a word, right? It’s perfectly normal.

But it happened more and more. Soon, it wasn’t just squirrels. It was the neighbor’s name, where his keys were, what the year was.

Each day became a struggle for him. Forget social planning, he couldn’t even remember where he lived most times. We resorted to buying Velcro shoes for him because, even within rheumatism or arthritis, he could not tie his own shoes anymore. He’s simply forgotten how.

He was constantly irritable, crabby, disgusted with his own feebleness yet powerless to stop it. Whenever I came to visit and saw him like this, it broke my heart.

On one such afternoon, I decided to drop by with some groceries for Pa. With both hands taken up by the bags, I trudged up to the door and gave it a good knock with my foot.

“Pa, open up! I’ve got your groceries!”

There was no answer for three minutes. Then four. Then five.

“Pa! Pa, open up! I can’t open the door and I don’t got the keys!” I called, louder again. Perhaps h didn’t hear me.

At last, I heard a slow shuffle from behind the door. My father slowly opened it, giving me a once-over all the while. I was about to crack a joke about his lateness when he stared me in the face suspiciously.

“Who’re you?”

I was dumbfounded. He didn’t recognize me, his own son.

“Pa, stop joking! It’s me, your son! C’mon, Pa, open up! I’ve got your groceries!” Panic. Cold, terrible panic, washed over me like a wave.

“Nice try, kiddo, but my son’s in high school. Now scram, and stay out.”

With that, he closed the door in my face.

But the worst event yet had to be when I decided to bring my father out for coffee. He was oddly distant that day on the way there, not saying much or doing much.

When we arrived, I ordered a couple of muffins for breakfast. Pa started picking them up and shoving them straight into his coat pockets.

“Pa, what’re you doing?! Stop it!” I tried to wrench them from his grasp. He let them go, the muffins falling to the ground from between his withered fingers.

“Those were for my son. They’re his favorite.”