They moved him out of his house and into a memory care facility called Briar Glen. It was three hours away, up in Vermont.
“Why so far?” I asked.
“It’s the best one,” Dad said. “Only the best for your grandfather.”
Grandpa had written me a letter every month since I was seven. Real letters, on yellow legal paper, in his square handwriting. He’d tell me about the birds at his feeder, or a funny thing he’d read in the paper, or a math puzzle he wanted me to solve. I’d write back. I kept every single one of his letters in a shoebox under my bed in the attic.
After he moved to Briar Glen, the letters stopped.
I kept writing to him. Every month. I’d give my letters to Mom to mail, because I didn’t know the address.
Nothing came back.
“He doesn’t remember you, honey,” Mom said, after almost a year. She said it gently. That was the worst part. “The doctors say it’s better not to upset him. Your letters confuse him. Maybe you should stop.”
