The photographic mind of my 86-year-old father is slowing its shutter speed, narrowing its F-stop, and the images emerging are beginning to blur. I am accustomed to him telling me the details of prominent lives based on his reading over many decades, the names, dates, relationships, events, places, and joys and tragedies. Stories still flow, but the names occasionally disappear or bungle. I always allow a long, respectful pause before supplying a name, if I know it. And when he insists on Middlesex County College (in New Jersey) instead of Salt Lake Community College (in Utah), I do not correct. What would be the point—to remind him of his and all humanity’s persistent deterioration? To try (in vain) to appear as smart as him? That would be cruel and arrogant of me. On each occasion when I do supply a name, I find that he is the one that originally supplied me with the name. So much of what I know comes from him telling me neverendingly about his readings and experiences. When he is gone, I will feel bereft of my teacher. I am reading a great deal in an attempt to open my brain on my own, but I observe with chagrin that the names and dates and events already do not stay in my memory—they have fled almost by the time I finish the book. What do remain inside me are the impressions, emotions rolled up with images my brain has supplied, and admiration and love for the humanity of each person I read about. While I may not be a useful repository of information, yet I trust my soul has stretched and grown by bringing those people into myself. These I never forget.