“ First it lived in his imagination, then his hands made it real.”

This is Alzheimer’s disease. This red chair. Eroded from years of living outside. Buffeted by rain and snow and wind and heat. Built by my brother in memory of our New England summers. First it lived in his imagination, then his hands made it real. That was 35 years ago. Now it waits. He waits; both racked by destructive forces. He is slowly forgetting all of it: the summers, the cottage, the marriage, the children, the family, the names, the places, and the making of it.

But it is still the red chair and he is still my brother. In my memory, he will be forever just finished making it, and sitting in it proudly -both strong and beautiful and bright.

Today we sit looking at the chair in silence. “We should burn it,” he says. “It’s time.”

“Not yet,” I respond. But soon, I think, too soon.