"Easy for you to say; your pride has never been stolen..."

As usual, Henry broke the silence.

"It's not fair," he said. Emotion clogged his voice.

"What's that, bud," I asked, even though I already knew.

"Other kids have a grandpa that comes over just to hang out," he said. "I don't even have that."

We were on our way home, back from the first visit to my dad's new home, an assisted living facility he was transferred to on Tuesday, following his most recent trip to the hospital. We knew he was heading that way, for a while—in his reluctant moods he was just too much for my mom to handle. He's been essentially wasting away for a while now, gripped by early-onset Alzheimer's that has progressed more rapidly than anyone could have predicted, yet he still possessed a wiry strength that made him almost impossible to move.

Still, knowing it was in the future was one thing. Sitting in the middle of it, looking around and letting it all sink in—no matter how much you might have tried to prepare yourself for it—is quite another.

I didn't really know what to expect and because of that I didn't want Henry to come with me the first time. I didn't want to give him nightmares or anything. But he was insistent and I eventually caved in. I think that was only in part because I felt a bit of sad pride that he would even want to go, knowing how unpleasant it might be, but I'm ashamed to say that it was mostly because I didn't want to face it alone.

We eventually found him back in the TV room named, as you might guess, for the TV that sat silent and dark against one wall. He was curled up on a couch, slightly hunched over, with his arms crossed and hands tucked tight up against his armpits. He was dressed and I was thankful for that. Bandages covered both his ankles. His feet were otherwise bare and looked like I imagined Frodo's would have halfway into his march through Mordor. The nails were thick, yellowish and split at the ends.

In three weeks, my dad will turn 67. He should be just starting to enjoy the retirement he and my mom had planned, perhaps even making good on their desire to sell the big house in Canton, buy a motor home and take a long look around the country. The other residents of the home were all old enough to be HIS father, and they regarded Henry and me with a sort of vacant curiosity.

My dad's eyes were closed, but he was awake.

"Who would've thought, eh?" I said to him, blinking rapidly and trying to keep my voice steady. The corners of his mouth dropped and his lips trembled. I had to look away.

Later, I again tried to keep my voice steady.

"Well, you have a great grandpa that you get to see on Saturday," I told Henry. "Not everybody has that."

"Grandpa wouldn't even shake my hand," Henry said, sniffling. "He doesn't want to be there. He wants to be home, with grandma."

"I know, buddy. We'd all like that, but this is the best thing for grandpa and for grandma..."

"I'm sorry," he interrupted me.

"Sorry for what?"

"I'm sorry for crying, because I made you cry."

I reached over and patted his leg. "It's okay, you don't have to apologize and there's nothing wrong with crying. When things are sad, you're supposed to cry. And this is very sad. We just have to try to make the best of it. The people there seemed nice; and it'll get easier."

And it will get easier. I know that. That's the final cruelty that this goddamn disease inflicts on you. But first it makes you miss the person even when you're sitting right next to him, trying to shake his hand or make him smile.

When drove the rest of the way home in silence, each lost in our thoughts. Henry might've been remembering playing catch with my dad in the backyard. Or the time he bit into a bar of soap because he thought it was a brownie.

Mine took a darker route, a haiku:

And there comes a time
when the boldest prayers fall short
and you're left wond'ring