The first sign was your handwriting.  Like a child’s
it slanted left then right, letters unevenly placed,
lines falling off.  The endearing attempt made.

Everything else was normal.
You drove by yourself 433 miles, sometimes along the coast.
You maneuvered up hills casually taken for granted,
created self-portraits along the cliffs, ate at cafes,
ordered exactly what you wanted.

Life is easy at this stage.  Handwriting is hardly used,
barely noticed.  Words
are still pronounced easily, you recall names
of childhood friends and solve complex formulas,
problems left finished.
We barely noticed.