It is hard to believe that the old man in the wheelchair is my father. He is hunched over, confused and alone by the window.

I visit every Tuesday. And every Tuesday he meets me again for the first time.

I hate what this disease has done to him. It stole my father but left his shell. I won't even utter it's name aloud. I won't give in to it by saying it.

Pamela, the aide walks with me over to where he sits.

"Mr. Perkins, your daughter is here."

He looks up, smiles, and squeezes the arm pad on the chair. He isn't happy because he recognizes me, only because he has a new visitor.

"Hello, young lady."

"Hi, Daddy."

He looks at Pamela with a confused smile. "She looks like Louise, don't she?"

"I don't remember Louise, Mr. Perkins," Pamela says.

"Oh yes you do. That little dark haired girl that goes to school with us." His voice takes on an impatient edge.

"Good luck," Pamela says, rubbing my arm as she passes by.

"How are you daddy?"

He nods and looks back out the window. He doesn't say another word to me for an hour.

"Remember that time we went fishing? You fell off the branch we were sitting on?"

I nod. It is one of his memories, probably from his childhood. He can recall the color of someone's shoes from his youth, but he doesn't remember me.

"You got madder than a hornet." He laughs and it turns into a cough.

"You alright?"

He takes a few deep breaths and looks me in the eye. "You look a lot like Louise."

I check in with the nurses, get his weekly update, then make my way to my car.

Again, I tell myself next week he'll remember me. I look up at the line of windows where he sits and tell him goodbye.

I drive home, knowing that next Tuesday he'll see me again for the first time.