He doesn’t always know what day it is. Sometimes he’ll ask me if his mother is coming to dinner. But every single morning, like clockwork, he picks a porcelain mug with lilies on it and sets it gently at my place.

“Because you like those ones,” he says, smiling. “The pink and white ones. You always said they looked like little dancers.”

I don’t correct him. I don’t say that it’s been years since I last said that. Or that he got it wrong once—it’s actually orchids I love. But the truth is, over time, I’ve started to love lilies too.

We’ve been married 62 years. I keep count now, because he can’t. Some days he thinks we just met. Other days, he’ll reach out suddenly and say, “Remember that night in Santa Cruz? The boardwalk lights? You wore that red scarf…” And I’ll nod, even if I wasn’t wearing red. I just want to stay in the memory with him, wherever it takes us.

Our daughter snapped this picture last week, during one of his clear evenings. He was teasing me about stealing all the hot water for tea, and I leaned in close so he wouldn’t forget I’m still here. That I’m still his.

His hand found mine on the table. No hesitation. Just instinct. Like his heart still knows me, even when his mind gets cloudy.

And then, last night, he whispered something that made my throat tighten.

He said, “You’re my home.”

He looked me dead in the eye, no confusion. Just that quiet warmth I fell for all those years ago.

And now I can’t stop wondering if he still remembers me when I’m not in the room. If, in the quiet moments when he’s lost in his thoughts, he sees my face or hears my voice. If the love he had for me, the love we built together, still lingers somewhere in his heart, even when his mind slips away.

The doctors call it dementia. It’s a slow, cruel disease that chips away at the person he used to be, the person I used to know. Some days, the confusion is unbearable. I watch him struggle with simple tasks, forgetting where he put his glasses or what he was about to say. But there are moments—small, fleeting moments—where he’s there again. It’s as though the fog lifts for a second, and I can see the man who used to know my every thought and feeling.

It’s in those moments that I hold on to the memory of who we were. I try to hold on to the man who used to make me laugh until my sides ached, the man who would surprise me with flowers after a long day or leave me little notes tucked into my coat pockets with sweet words that made my heart flutter. That’s the man I remember, the man I want him to always be.

But lately, I’ve been questioning myself. Am I holding on to the past too tightly? I’ve watched him change so much, and I’ve tried to be strong for both of us. I’ve tried to convince myself that this love is still here, even if it doesn’t look the way it used to. But when I’m alone at night, lying beside him as he sleeps, I wonder if I’m doing the right thing. If I’m being selfish, holding on to someone who’s slipping away, just because I can’t bear to let go.

This morning, he was in the garden, crouched down by the rose bushes, muttering to himself. I watched from the window as he carefully plucked a few yellowed leaves, his fingers trembling with the effort. It was a sight I’d seen many times before, but today, it struck me differently. He wasn’t the strong, steady man I had married. He wasn’t the man who had taught me how to plant a garden and pull weeds without complaint. He was just a shadow of the person I used to know, fumbling through tasks he used to do so easily.

I wanted to rush out to him, to take his hand and help him, but something inside me held back. I didn’t want to hover. I didn’t want to make him feel like he couldn’t do things on his own, even if I knew he was struggling. But as I watched him carefully place the leaves in a small plastic bag, I realized something.

He was trying to make things right, in his own way. He was still fighting to care for the little things, the small pieces of life that meant so much to him. And maybe that was all I could ask for. Maybe I didn’t need him to remember everything, to be the man he once was. Maybe, just maybe, all I needed was for him to keep trying. To keep showing up, even when he didn’t have the words to express it.

Later that day, when I was cleaning up after lunch, I found a small envelope tucked in the pocket of my apron. It was from him, the handwriting shaky but familiar. I opened it carefully, feeling a tear slip down my cheek as I read the words inside.

“I don’t remember everything, but I remember you. I remember how much I love you. I remember the way you smile when you look at me, like I’m still the man you’ve always wanted. I remember us. And I always will, no matter what happens.”

The words hit me harder than I expected. My heart ached, but this time, it wasn’t out of sadness. It was out of love—love that had never left, even when the days got harder, even when the memories started to fade.

I thought about what he’d said, how he still remembered the core of our relationship. How he still remembered me. In a way, it made everything feel right again. It made me realize that love isn’t about remembering every little thing. It’s about remembering the feeling, the connection, the bond that keeps you tethered to each other, no matter how far apart the distance grows.

The next morning, he picked up the porcelain mug with the lilies on it, just like he always did. He smiled at me, his eyes soft with affection.

“Here you go,” he said, placing the mug in front of me. “I remember you like these.”

I smiled back, my heart swelling with gratitude. “Thank you,” I said softly. “I do like them.”

And in that moment, I realized that the love we shared wasn’t defined by memory. It wasn’t defined by whether he could remember my name or the details of our past. It was defined by the moments we still shared, by the tenderness in his eyes when he looked at me, and by the quiet understanding that even when everything else faded away, we still had each other.

As I sat down to my tea, I felt a sense of peace settle over me. Yes, things were different now. But maybe, just maybe, that was okay. Because in the end, love isn’t about the things we remember—it’s about the way we make each other feel, day after day, even when everything else is lost.

And that’s something I’ll never forget.

If you’ve been through something similar, know that you’re not alone. Life changes, and sometimes love looks different than we expect, but it’s still love. It’s still real. Hold on to the moments that matter and remember that sometimes, the most important thing is simply showing up for each other.

Please share this post with anyone who might need a little reminder today that love is more than just memories. It’s about the bond we share and the connection that keeps us going.

Let’s remind each other that, no matter how much time passes, love can always find a way.