It's also a little warmer than May -- days are in the high seventies and low eighties. This is still cooler than June usually is, so I'm not complaining. But we are running the AC, especially at night.
I talk to my father a couple times a week now. He tells me every time how lonely he is, and how much he misses my mother. He also asks me where he is. "I think we own this condo?" he asked me this last time. "Or are we renting it? I think we own it."
He's living in assisted care, of course. I said gently that I thought they were renting it, but that [my brothers] would know for sure.
"I'll ask them," he said, and paused, and added, "I used to know more than both of them put together. Now I can't...I can't..."
"You're having memory problems," I supplied.
"Yes! I can't remember things!" He paused again, and said, "It's the worst thing. I just can't...but it's no use trying to go backwards. Go forward! Try new things. Maybe it sounds funny, I'm 83 years old, and I'm saying do new things, learn more. It's the only way, though."
"It is," I agreed.
"And exercise! Exercise helps a lot. Well, it's got to."
He always asks after the kid. And he always remembers the kid's pronouns, and his name -- not his deadname, the one he's using now. Honest to God, if a 83 year old with Alzheimers can do it, all the whining bigots can fuck right off and then go down the hall and fuck off some more.