At first I tried to move, closer then farther away, up then down, side to side. I tried to see if there was a way to remove my own reflection from the framed pictures of my father I was trying to capture.

On that warm June day, we had buried my father’s ashes in the town’s veterans’ cemetery two months after he died. Later, at the house, as my extended family sat upstairs in the living room, I headed down to the basement.

At the bottom of the stairs was my father’s “glory wall” of pictures, medals, and mementos from his days as a Naval aviator in the Korean War, including pictures of the aircraft carrier USS Boxer, the ship that carried my father and his plane into the South China Sea.

It was here that I felt close to my dad.

As Alzheimer’s was stealing my father from our family – from me – and as it erased his own memories of his life, his stories of his days in the Navy stayed strong.

Eventually, he got caught in a loop with those stories. He would not even pause, barely take a breath, the same stories washing over us again and again. The time he did his survival training, the time he caught the final wire in a carrier landing. His eyes would well up when he told us about the time he lost a friend in a tragic plane crash.

Sometimes I’d remind him softly (and sometimes not so softly) that his life included a strong and loving wife, three children who loved him, their families, and his beloved grandson. It included his founding of a successful company, winning gold and silver medals in tennis at the senior Olympics, and his own late-in-life writing that he was so proud of.

As his Alzheimer’s progressed, my anger became overwhelming. I found an empty box and labeled it “Screw Alzheimer’s.” Often, I would rip off a piece of paper, write something, then put it in the box. “I miss my dad.” Then later, “He doesn’t know who I am anymore.” And, yes, “Screw Alzheimer’s” was in there a lot. A lot.

I will never forget one time I came to visit. I opened the breezeway door and ran to my dad, embracing him, my head on his chest, my arms tight around his back. He kept his arms out to the side and looked at my mom and asked, “Who is this?” I left my shattered heart on the kitchen floor that day.

Downstairs, I took pictures of the whole wall, then moved in to get some closer shots.  As I looked over the photographs, I was drawn to the one frame with two pictures inside.

 Maybe the white uniform in one photo didn’t fit very well or felt uncomfortable. Maybe, as a young man whose mother laughed when he told her he was going to fly jet planes, he could not believe he had really made it.

In the other picture, he had a sly smile and squinted eyes as he sat in the cockpit of an F9F-6 Cougar jet. There is no doubt about his expression here. He was happy and proud and excited, and I felt that pride, too.

Dad called me “little brown” as I was growing up because we were the only two in our family with brown eyes. I’d loved the nickname. In my teen years though, he and I grew to have a complicated and hurtful relationship. But over the years, we came to understand each other and reconciled. Our relationship was strong.

I will never forget how tightly I held onto my dad’s arm as he walked me down the aisle at my wedding, and how he placed his hand on top of mine in a gesture of love. And I will never forget how gently he held my baby boy a few years later and how much he loved my son.

About a month before he died, my dad was hospitalized. The first day I saw him he was sleeping. The next day, as I walked into the room, he reached out for me. I went to him, and he grabbed my hands. I leaned toward him, and he said, “I. Love. You.” “I love you, too, dad,” I answered. Finally, he looked deep into my eyes and said, “You are the beat of my heart.”

It had been a lovely memorial service for my father, although I only recall parts of it. In a clear voice that surprised me, I read a poem I had written.

The Veterans of Foreign Wars members, dressed in their navy-blue blazers and dark pants, walked up to my father’s flag-draped coffin and slowly saluted. Then each one placed a red poppy on the coffin.

At the end of the service, I stood and gathered all the poppies strewn over dad’s coffin and held them tight in my hand as the room slowly emptied.

I sat back down feeling like l needed to stay. My dad was in there. My tears streaked down my face and soaked my dress. My son came and sat down next to me, put his arm around me, and gently guided me out of the room.

I miss my dad. Sometimes I still listen to the voicemail messages he left for me – – even as each one traces the progression of the disease.

When I was taking those photos of Dad’s glory wall, I did not want my own reflection to obscure dad’s image. I wanted to capture him -– but instead I captured my father and me together, I captured us.

I think my dad would have loved this picture of the two of us. And I will always remember how much he loved me. And I can smile and hold on tight to the love. I hold tight.

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Cheryl Somers Aubin has been writing and publishing for over 30 years and her work has appeared in newspapers, magazines, in print and online journals. She has an MA/Writing from Johns Hopkins University and is the former nonfiction editor for the Literary Journal Delmarva Review. Cheryl teaches memoir writing and writing the family memoir and is a featured speaker at book festivals, writing conferences, and workshops. She is the author of The Survivor Tree: Inspired by a True Story. www.thesurvivortree.com.