The first time she misplaced her keys, I brushed it off… Then, she forgot her destination while driving. Soon after, she couldn’t recall why she had entered a room. The most heartbreaking part was the way she covered it up, the nervous laughter, the casual remark, “Oh well, I must be tired.” Deep down, she understood the truth. I could see it long before I heard it. She knew.

We eventually stopped playing board games, as pieces began to vanish. Dining out became a challenge when she no longer remembered how to navigate the menu. Conversations dwindled when it became clear that I was the only one recalling our discussions. Yet, people would often remark, “She looks wonderful!” Yes, she always did. That’s the cruel reality of dementia: it hollowed her from within. Her skin remained smooth while her mind started to fray.

The day she asked me who I was, I chose to lie. I said I was an old friend. She smiled politely and replied, “You remind me of my son.” I was her son.

That moment shattered something deep inside me. It didn’t happen suddenly; it was a gradual unraveling, like a rot that creeps unnoticed up a wall until it threatens the very foundation. I began to talk to her as if she were still present. Sometimes she was. Most times, she wasn’t. I started to treasure flickers, those rare sparks when she would hum a tune from long ago or recall the name of our childhood dog while watching television.

That became our new language of love: fragments.

That was when I understood that memory doesn’t fade all at once. It drips and slips away, until only love remains—and even that sometimes forgets its own name.