I visited a friend this past weekend who has Alzheimers.
It was a bit of a shock to show up, announce his name, and give him a hug only for him to stare blankly back at me and ask me who I was.
…Granted, we’ve only spent three Burning Mans together as a part of the same, larger camp, which maybe amounts to 15-25 interactions buried inside a rich and long-lived life… but still… we have some rock-star memories together.
And this was coming from a once very sharp guy.
…He was an educator.
…He was a pilot.
…He built his own home from the ground up.
…He was incredibly well read.
…He had remarkable taste and skill in the arts.
And so when he asked me who I was… or when he couldn’t remember the word for “wood”… or when he asked what “cantaloupe” was—as he finished eating it off his bagel (yes, you read that right)… it was heartbreaking.
And yet…
…As I looked around his home—the one he built from the ground up—and felt the warmth that radiated not only from the loving visitors that shared his space for the weekend—but from the decades of love that was proudly featured in every available space, that was crafted under each step and met with each touch, that was baked into every possession and crevice and quirky detail…
…It made me feel better.
…Knowing that when he forgets—at least he’s blanketed with evidence of a love and legacy many of us would kill to have lived and remembered even just once.