My father turns 84 today.

But he is currently in a memory facility, living out his days confused, under the pall of Alzheimers.

All I would have to say to him – happy birthday, what did you eat yesterday, who am I – would be met with a stare and a questioning look on his face, a face I will grow into if I live to be that long.

There is no need for bringing up memories, or what ifs. No need for reminisces that have been lost in the sands of time to a cruel bitch named Dementia. We have gone beyond the questions every child wonders of their parents and, if they’re lucky, can ask one day.

“Are you proud of me?”

“Did I do okay?”

And the things that well-adjusted kids want to say to their parents.

“You did okay.”

“I’m thankful.”

Even with a man with whom I have…issues with. A man who told me that I wasn’t family, that I wasn’t important, that showed me that being abandoned by those you love is a very real and very possible outcome in life. I can’t talk to him, can’t ask him anything of substance, can’t tell him, at least, thanks for doing his part in making me physically while damaging what he could mentally.

So I’ll wish him a happy birthday from afar, and mourn what was and could have been, and hope for a day where he can sit and find comfort in muddled thoughts. I can hope he eats well, and something at his facility reminds him of something good, something he can’t quite remember, but knows it makes him happy, and he smiles.