Tears streamed down my face.
I picked up a pencil and wrote beneath it:
“If I forget everything else, I hope I remember how he held my hand.”
Henry pulled me into his arms.
“I’m scared,” I whispered. “What if I forget our children?”
“I’ll tell you about them every day.”
“What if I forget you?”
He kissed my forehead. “Then I’ll introduce myself every morning… and fall in love with you all over again.”
“I’m going to fight this.”
“I know. And I’ll be with you every step of the way.”
The next day, I called the doctor.
“I want to know everything,” I said.
He explained the treatment options, the trial, the cost.
“Your husband is ready to spend everything,” he said.
“I know. And I want to try. I want every extra day I can get.”
We start next week.
The doctor suggested I keep a journal.
So I did.
Henry helps me fill in the details when my memory falters.
Last week, I forgot our daughter’s name for a moment.
I wrote it down immediately:
“Iris. Our daughter. Brown hair. Kind eyes. Loves gardening.”
Sometimes, I go into the garage and look at all the versions of myself.
The woman I was.
The woman I am.
The woman I may become.
And I think about Henry—the man who has loved me for sixty years, and will continue to love me even when I can’t remember why.
Yesterday, I added something new to my journal:
“If one day I look at Henry and don’t know who he is, please read this to me: This man is your heart. He has been your heart for sixty years. Even if you forget his name, your soul will recognize him. Trust the love you cannot remember—but that has never left you.”
I showed it to him.
He cried as he read it, then held me like I might disappear.
And maybe, someday, I will.
But not today.
Today, we still have this.
If memory fades, I hope love remains.
Because even in forgetting… my Henry was never truly lost.
Source: amomama.com
