When I arrived for a later afternoon visit with my dad yesterday, my sister, Bonnie, was just leaving.

She reported he had been napping, woke up long enough to greet her and exchange a few words, then nodded off again.

Bonnie said she called his attention to the little home-made Christmas wreath on the wall directly in front of his bead. It’s placed so that he can see it as he lays in bed.

“Mother brought it on Monday,” she reminded him. “My mother.” The latter clarification added because he tends to conflate the memories of mother, wife, and daughter.

“Monday?” he asked with interest. “She’s going to visit on Monday?” He’s excited by the prospect.

Bonnie explains: “No, she was here this past Monday.”

Monday was his 96th birthday. I joined my mother and sister for a small celebration at his bedside. He enjoyed a piece of birthday cake, although I don’t think the idea of “birthday” was fully processed. And he didn’t say anything to my mom and seemed to barely recognize her presence while we were there, a very noticeable issue.

Bonnie told me all this as we stood at the door that opens into the lobby at the bottom of the stairs of this nursing home. The lobby is cozy, a small space, with the door to the kitchen and a small receptionist’s office opposite the elevator and stairs, and bounded in the other directions by the automatic door out to the parking lot on one side and a glass door out to Beretania Street on the other. There’s a vending machine with a selection of candies and nuts. A sign on the wall warns visitors to stay away if they have any cold or flu symptoms. There’s a dispenser of antiseptic hand lotion on the wall between the vending machine and the kitchen door. Not much else in that sterile little space.

I asked if he was awake and aware enough to justify my walk up the stairs.

“He’ll at least know you were there,” she said.

Bonnie was carrying a canvas bag with his dirty clothes. We thought about his inability to remember Monday’s family visit and the odds that he might connect with our presence today. Then, with a mutual shrug of sorts, we went our ways. She hit the green button to open to door to the parking lot, and I headed up the stairs to the 3rd floor.

It’s always morning in the State of Dementia.

So when my dad sensed my arrival, he opened his eyes, blinked.

“Good morning, Ian,” he said a bit slowly.

This time I didn’t correct him, as I’ve often done in the past.

I went through the checklist of small talk. How did you sleep? How are you feeling today? Have you had anything to eat? Isn’t the weather nice? Bonnie was just here.

“She was? Oh, yes, she was.” Question becomes statement.

He looked up and saw the wreath.

“Did you tell me that mother made the wreath?”

I remind him that it was Bonnie who told him.

He nods. I don’t know which “mother” image is in his mind. Perhaps it doesn’t matter.

It’s morning in his mind, and he complains about his bad memory.

“I can’t remember what I’m supposed to do today,” he says, not quite whining about it.

“There’s something important I’m supposed to do, but I can’t remember.” His voice underscores the word “important”.

I respond that the thought will probably return again, as these things seem to do.

He says that he was reminded of it several times in the past few days, so is sure that the task is waiting to be done.

He stares into the shallow pool of memory. We sit in momentary silence.

Then Bob, the 3rd floor nursing supervisor, sticks his head in the door, looks across the row of four beds to our spot at the end of the room in front of the window, curtains now closed to hold off the late afternoon sun. I wave a greeting.

“Hello,” Bob responds cheerfully with a friendly wave of his hand. “Hello, Mr. Lind,” he shouts across to my dad. “How are you feeling?”

“I’m okay,” he says, returning the wave.

Bob backs out of the room, continues down the hall.

My dad looks at me.

“Does he own all these places?”

Sometimes he thinks he’s in a hotel, in a friend’s apartment, or maybe in a bunk in his boat. I used to say he was in a hospital, but I quickly realized that was the wrong answer.

Does Bob own the hotel?

“I think Bob’s one of the managers,” I explain. He knows about managers. As a salesman of equipment and supplies to restaurants and hotels for more than 60 years, he’s known a lot of managers. It’s an answer he understands.

Then one of his regular nursing assistants came in carrying a tray of food, delivered the first tray to another of the men in the room, then returned with the second for my dad.

“Breakfast,” he said with mild enthusiasm.

“No, Mr. Lind, dinner.”

He’s surprised. More than surprised, really. Shocked.

“Dinner? What time is it?”

“It’s 5 o’clock, Mr. Lind!”

He looks at me. He was sure it was morning. I guess that happens when you wake up and your memory is a pretty clean slate. It must be morning.

Now, for at least a brief time, he realizes that another day has gone missing. You can see it in his expression. His eyes are asking the question. What happened to the day? Did I sleep through it? Did I forget it? Where am I?

He picks up the small cup with small bits of ripe cantaloup. First he fumbles around trying to pick up slippery bits of fruit with fingers that don’t have much feeling. They defy his efforts. I lean over, pull the fork out from under a napkin, set it out in the open. He shifts to the fork, spears a piece, eats it. Good. Spears another.

My phone rings. Today it announces the call with a few guitar chords. It’s Meda, ready to be picked up.

It’s a good time to leave. He’s occupied with food, then he’ll sleep.

And he’ll awake in the morning. Always in the morning.