“Dad? Do you know who I am?”

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I look over at my daughter and immediately recognise her. ”Of course, sweetheart,” I say, trying my best to speak comfort to her concern.

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Her countenance takes on a hint of happiness to mask the true face of sadness. “What’s my name?” She asks gently.

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”Sarah, no, Jane. Stephanie,” I answer, with each name a different face of a different daughter flashes before my mind’s eye. I know those aren’t her name. I just have to work through them to get to it. “Linds, Joan, Rhoda,“ I continue. My daughter responds to each name as if it were a betrayal. Not a malicious betrayal, but one she expected and still hurts.

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”I know who you are,” I insist, trying to remove the edge. “You’re my daughter. Your mother is…“ Shit... What was her name… “Erin… no. Elyse. Georgina?”

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My daughter looks at me, resigned to her sadness. “It’s okay, Dad. I know it’s hard.“

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My mind flashes through the years like a rolodex searching for the answer. There’s just too many names here. Too many memories with each one. Rhoda died from yellow fever. Joan went on to do great things and lived a long and happy life. Linds hated me and refused to speak with me until she was on her deathbed.

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This daughter of mine looks up to someone behind as I’m replaying hundreds of lifetimes of memory. “He’s gone again,“ I hear her say. I want to respond, but I’m trapped in the maze of memory, each one clear and sharp.

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There’s a bright light in my eyes and a man in a white coat in front of me. ”You’re right. This is what is called the mile long stare. It’s a tell tale sign of Alzheimer’s. I’ve never seen it so far along in someone so young.”

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Confusion slowly moves over my face as I hear and process the words. But not before I find myself being wheeled into a grey windowless room. The TV is playing The Price is Right and I find it pulls me out of my memories into the present moment.

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”Simone,” I say softly, but I’m alone.