Slowly, you started forgetting. All familiarity from your memory was slowly being slashed by the swords in your mind. They didn’t spare you not one memory; but honestly, I believe they did spare you one— Her. I don’t believe you ever forgot Her. In some distant way, you remembered.
“I can still smell and taste her moistness, as if just yesterday we had made crazy love alongside the springs where we would picnic. This was, of course, long before they committed her to a psychiatric hospital, no less frightening a place than the lunatic asylums of the past. She had murdered her father, stabbing him countless times and with such contempt, her wrists shattered in the process. A horrible act, indeed, but undoubtedly justified. Those heinous things he did to her as a child drove my innocent Rebecca insane.” From My Rebecca, Insane
I once told a friend that I didn’t have a real father, that he left when I was two, and that I was raised by my mom and stepfather. She responded, “So, your stepfather is your father?”
Since then I’ve been more aware of how I use the terms “real father” and “stepfather”, and have tried to make an effort of using “father” to show respect and appreciation for his role in my life. In his fifties, our father Joe was diagnosed with early-onset Alzheimer’s.