You and I, Dad.

Together we built that napkin holder for Mom. I drew penciled hearts along the side of it and you smiled and drank coffee from your travel mug. Is that the memory I want to remember?

When did I think your accident would be easy? I supposed that you would physically return home and your brain was elastic enough to bounce back to its former being because you are my dad and you can do anything. You could do anything.

You could do anything. 

And now, I realize that you were broken on June 6, 2002. All those years ago, your brain was injured and a big part of it was taken away and you are different. I thought that essay I penned in college fixed it, Dad. I thought when I put those words on a piece of paper and it was published in a magazine, that I could put it on a shelf and store it away and allow your brain injury to become a dusty memory we  could all ignore. 

I thought I'd dealt with this and that I knew what to expect. But the partial death of the fatherly figure I knew is something I am only just learning how to cope with. Because now Mom is aging and you do not have the skills to care for her. 

Because now you are doing illogical things that makes us all wonder where you went. You bring home ammunition and tell us to prepare for an apocalypse and to buy seeds; many, many seeds. 

Mom has told me that she will need you to sign the house over to her name because of the likelihood of Alzheimer's in the near future. 

And all I can think about is that damn napkin holder. You were my hero, Dad. And you are here, you are still here but I've lost the father of my childhood, of my best memories. 

And I never mourned him. And tonight I cry desperately, trying to grasp something that no longer exists in this life. I am trying to cup air in my hands. Even my deep breaths cannot satiate the desperation for oxygen, because there is not enough in this entire house to calm a broken heart. 

You did not teach me, Dad, how to be okay right now. I am going into a cold and silent adventure, blindly with our family as we try to help you understand what we cannot. I love you, Dad. Please do not forget me. Do not forget your little girl.

And I am so scared.