Neither of them would remember this visit.

That’s what I realized as my father snuggled my youngest son. For the past ten minutes Dad had been clicking his tongue, and my 8-month-old clicked back at him. It was adorable.

“Want to see Grandpa?” my 81-year-old dad asked, his hands outstretched. Harrison happily went to him.

It was the fifth time in as many minutes. My dad kissed his cheek, my son lunged back to me, and my dad said, “My, he’s a sturdy boy. What’s his name again?”

It was the sixth time he’d asked that. Then the tongue clicking competition began again.

My dad has Alzheimer’s, and I could see the wheels churning in his eyes to recognize me yesterday. He doesn’t remember I have nine kids, either. He stared at me in shock when I reminded him, likely wondering when THAT  happened. (I wonder myself.)

“Want to see Grandpa?”

My son likely thought it was a game. He was grinning when he went over again to accept another kiss.

And I realized neither of them would remember that day. 

I didn’t even remember to bring in my phone to take a picture of them together, like I usually do. 

After we left, my dad would sit down to his large print Reader’s Digest and chuckle at the jokes he’d already read a dozen times that day, not ever realizing we were there. 

Harrison with Grandpa at 4 months old. He was happier yesterday. And of course, I didn't get a picture. Sigh.

It was the same with my 85-year-old mother, in the same facility, slowly dying of Parkinson’s. She looked at my son and slipped back into her native German as she had been during our conversation,“Wie sϋβ!” 

It means, “How sweet!”

Then she went on in alternating languages about what to do with the beige and purple houses, the people around her who “knew” things, and the new German words made up in the newspapers. 

Yes, she has dementia too, and wouldn’t remember the “Wonderful surprise!” of our visit. As we walked away, she slumped back down into her laz-e-boy chair, closed her eyes, and went back to fingering her fake pearls that made her feel dressed up.

So why did I bother, I wondered as I put my son in his carseat for the almost two-hour drive back home. Not one of the three of them would remember.

But maybe they would be affected, somehow. 

Perhaps we’re influenced by memories we don’t recall, but leave us with feelings that carry us through the day, the years. 

I have photos of Harrison with his grandparents, and when he’s older he’ll know that they held him and loved him for the brief time they shared the earth together.

And perhaps my parents will be left with a sense that something pleasant had happened that day, and maybe that’s enough.

I alone will remember the visit, and will be the bridge between the far-flung generations.

And maybe that’s enough.

I was born just days after NASA first landed on the moon.
I thought about giving a copy of this "How sweet!" picture to my parents,
but it would have overwhelmed their already-shaky grasp on reality.
I'm not that big of a tease . . . anymore.