Last March was my dad's 80th birthday. My parents were down in Arizona at the time, and my dad asked if we would have a big birthday bash for him when when they returned. I assured him that we would, although in my mind I was thinking (well, not a BIG bash, like their 50th wedding anniversary, just a modest bash, with some of his old friends.)
When they returned from Arizona, it was the end of April, not long after my father-in-law's death. Right away there was the annual Mother's Day Luncheon, and then there was Stepson Number 2's graduation and a great-neice's birthday, and then there was the Father's Day celebration.
Then it was summer.
My mother and I talked a few times about a party for my dad, even started to put together the list of people we wanted to invite.
But we never quite got it planned.
Thursday, the social worker asked him what year it was. He told her he was born in 1929. My mom and I asked him how old he was.
He didn't know.