Jack Cunningham
I woke up early, as I always do, to the sound of gulls squabbling outside my window. The smell of salt air drifted in, sharp and familiar. I sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing my hands together, staring at the floorboards worn smooth by years of footsteps. For a moment, I thought I heard my wife humming in the kitchen, the way she used to when the kettle was just about to whistle. Then I remembered—Anne’s been gone five years now.
My daughter, Grace, came by later that morning. She’s the one who keeps me grounded these days, though I sometimes see the worry flicker in her eyes. I’ll be 75 next spring, but it’s not the years that weigh on me—it’s the way my mind keeps playing tricks. Like yesterday, when I put my boots in the fridge and the milk by the door. Or last week, when I was sure I had a whale tour booked, even though the boat’s been sold for years.
It was Grace who insisted I see the doctor last fall. Tests and questions, poking and prodding—and then the word I had feared: Alzheimer’s. I wasn’t surprised, not really, but hearing it said out loud felt like being adrift without an anchor. Grace squeezed my hand that day and said, “We’ll get through this together, Dad.”
She doesn’t get upset. She laughs, pats my hand, and says, “Dad, let’s make some new memories.” She’s planned a trip for the two of us, a tour of the island. Gros Morne, Cape Spear, and up to Fogo. Newfoundland’s vast—bigger than most realize. I’ve lived here my whole life, but there are corners even I haven’t seen.
Still, I worry. What if I forget the way Gros Morne’s cliffs rise against the sea, or the sound of whales spouting on the horizon? What if I forget Grace? I push the thought away as we sit on the porch that afternoon. The sun dips low, casting the bay in gold.
“You know, Dad,” Grace says, breaking the quiet, “this trip isn’t just for you. It’s for me too. I want to remember you the way you are now, with your stories and stubbornness, not just... later.”
I nod but don’t trust myself to speak. Instead, I focus on the horizon, where the water stretches endlessly, as if daring me to forget it.