A good, healthy today—with a spark of love and memory still shining through. 💛

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[Today was one of those rare and quiet victories. Dad had a good day—one of the truly healthy ones. His eyes were alert, his spirit light. We even shared a few laughs, and I caught him smiling that familiar smile that used to light up our living room on Sunday mornings.]

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At one point, he looked around, squinted a little, and asked softly, “Where’s my wife, Janice?” His voice was gentle—equal parts confusion, curiosity, and longing. But there was no panic in it. Just a genuine, heartfelt wondering. A search for the person who had been his anchor for decades. In that moment, his words weren’t just about orientation or memory—they were about love. Even as the edges of time blur, the heart seems to remember what the mind cannot always hold onto. His question wasn’t just a symptom of forgetting. It was a quiet reminder of how deeply connected he still is—to her, to us, to this life he built. Wearing his Pittsburgh Penguins shirt, sitting in the same room where birthdays were celebrated and tears were quietly wiped away, he felt more here than he has in days. There was color in his cheeks, a softness in his expression. These moments remind me that progress doesn’t always look like strength—it can look like stillness, like presence, like one simple, sacred question whispered in a morning kitchen: “Where’s my wife, Janice?” And somehow, everything good about today was wrapped up in that question.
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