I'm old, there is no point in denying that. Even with my faulty memory that fact is obvious to me. The nurses here say that I was once a hero and an incredibly smart man. I don't know if their telling the truth or lying to me, but either way they're not nearly as comforting as I think they mean to be.

It isn't comforting to know that I was once a smart man when I'm already starting to forget my own name. I know that someday soon I'll forget having written this journal and soon after I'll forget how to read much less write but for right now it is a comfort to me, particularly since it helps me remember the important things. Like the name of my silver-haired gentleman caller.

John is my favorite person in the whole world. I don't know if it was always that way, but from the funny stories he likes to tell about the trouble we used to get into, I think he was. It pains me to know that someday soon John will make his daily journey to see me only to find nothing left of the man he once loved.

I wish I could tell him that when that happens I want him to leave and never look back, but I'm to weak to do it. Even if I can't remember myself I think at least part of me will remember the man who holds my heart.