When I was 7, my Grandpa, Al Zippay, was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease. For 10 years, he survived while his memory deteriorated — and I grew up witnessing and questioning what it means to lose so much of one’s self. My family — my mom and her two sisters most of all — cared for him with a profound tenderness. Through frustrations and pain. They found humor and maintained a deep love.

My grandpa was the son of Czechoslokian immigrants, who lived his whole life in the industrial community of Sharon, PA. He was a WWII veteran, serving in one of the first portable surgical hospitals — an experience that left him with a profound abhorrence for violence. He had a long career as the manager and voice of a local radio station. He was different from other men I knew at the time: curious, quiet and compassionate.

When he died, I didn't mourn him. Alzheimer's disease provokes a state of perpetual grief. Al, and our family, had endured daily losses — of memory, of self — the loss of life was only the latest. Now, a decade later, I find myself thinking of him. Of these many losses. And of what can still be recovered.

As a witness to the effects of memory loss I feel particularly attuned to the importance of preserving personal memories. As Sharon, PA, Al’s home, continues its de-industrialization and population decline, more and more memories of the community are lost. This happens in communities and families across the country. Every act of personal storytelling and memory preservation is important and radical. It’s an attempt to work against systems, biological or social, that try to erase our shared histories.