Short term is the first to go. We saw it in you and they search for it in Dad, however you check for that. We all took a test when I was younger; our blood in vials tagged on the counter. Mine was redder than my brother’s. Dizzy when I stood. Gauze and a juice box for the road. Mom calls us by the wrong names and loses words on the tip of her tongue. Dad gives away the coin collection. We find a wedding band in a drawer and Mom doesn’t know whose initials are engraved on the inside. We go through old family photos after the funeral and no one knows who the people are. Everyone that would have is dead. Dad tells a story about me chasing the cat as a kid and swears it was about my brother. Mom can’t remember which childhood cat got hit by a car. Remember how bad your tremor got towards the end? I see it in Dad’s hands now, how they shake. Sometimes he reaches for something well within his grasp but falls short. Sometimes I feel it too, in my neck, like a puppet string tugging at my jaw ever so slightly. Sometimes I catch a glimpse of my reflection and realize I look a lot more like you than I used to. They check the proteins in Dad’s spinal fluid and measure his cholesterol just to make sure it’s all normal. Just to be safe, like we don’t all remember how it was with you, screaming your brother’s name at us until they pumped a tranquilizer into your IV. We all see it when we look at Dad. He holds so much of you in his face. I am learning what it’s like to watch your parents start to winter.