Baby Steps

I’m walking through the wooded outskirts of Belmont Lake with my father. He is friendly on this day, and the woods are dressed in green for early spring. He has taken his first baby steps into dementia.

The whoosh of cars along the parkway, about a half-mile from us, bothers me. He notices.

“Traffic. The sound of real life,” I explain.

He sweeps his long arm in the direction of the trees and shrubs lining the narrow path around the lake:

“That isn’t real life. These trees, the walk. This is real life.”

Clarity. Then more baby steps, until he’s gone.