I showed Dad a black-and-white pic of his parents, when they were in their 80s. Nanny died when I was 5, and his father died before I was born. Nanny had one leg amputated toward the end of her life, because having 11 kids is hard on a body, and his father owned a hat shop and, by all accounts, got through the Great Depression without too much trouble.
Dad looked at it for a bit, smiled, and asked me whether the picture had been taken recently.
Me: No, Dad, it was taken awhile ago. Dad: A few years ago? Me: Yeah. Dad: Have you seen Mom and Pop? Me: No, not in some time. Dad: Did Pop close up the store? Me: I don't know. Sorry. Dad: I'm surprised your mother didn't come today. Me: She was tired. Maybe tomorrow.
His is a happy world, where everyone he loves is alive and well. On the other hand, I had just gotten used to him forgetting about Mom. I wasn't expecting him to lose stuff from that far in the way-back machine.
In other news, he is scheduled to come home next week, but there's blood in his urine again, so we'll see.