Harold used to leave me tiny notes after we were married, tucking them into strange places—glove compartments, coffee filters, or even under the laundry detergent bottle. He’d tell me, “Just in case you forget how loved you are.”
Now, it’s me who’s reminding him.
It all began with little slips—notes about where he’d put the car keys, upcoming appointments, or names. One day, in the middle of a conversation, he suddenly stopped and asked, “Wait… what’s your name again?” His expression was confused and guilty, as though he should have known, but it was hidden behind something inaccessible.
I kissed his cheek, smiled, and repeated my name.
Since then, every day has been a dance between muscle and memory. Even if he doesn’t always remember exactly how, he knows that I’m his. I’m “the nice lady,” “the scarf girl,” or sometimes “the peach blouse,” depending on the moment. My name may never be entirely right, but he still lights up when he sees me.
We often sit together on a bench in the back. He calls it “The waiting place.” One day, he just started calling it that; no one ever told him to. At sunset, he’ll sit there silently, wearing his Windy Oaks cap, scanning the horizon, as if something important is about to happen.
“What are you waiting for out here?” I once asked.
He answered, “She always comes around now,” a soft smile tugging at his lips, eyes fixed ahead. “The lady with the gentle eyes.”
I didn’t realize, until that moment, that he wasn’t waiting for me. He was waiting for someone else, someone from his past. A knot tightened in my stomach, but I couldn’t figure out who this “woman with the kind eyes” was. His memory wasn’t just fading; it was changing, morphing in ways I couldn’t grasp.
I tried to brush it off. Harold had always been a romantic, a dreamer. Maybe it was just a moment of nostalgia, a fleeting memory of his younger years. Still, he would sit on that bench every evening with the same expression, like he was waiting for a train that would never arrive.
At first, I joined him. We’d sit in silence as the garden filled with the warm, golden glow of the setting sun. Most days, when I asked him about his day or reminded him of our shared experiences, he’d smile and nod. His eyes were distant, but always warm when they met mine. Yet, there were times when I could sense that he wasn’t fully present, his gaze drifting toward the horizon.
I couldn’t ignore it anymore, even though I didn’t want to face it. I wasn’t prepared for how I was losing him. It wasn’t just the faces or names fading from his memory. The recollections of our first date, our inside jokes, the love letters, the trips we took together—they all seemed to slip away, like sand sifting through his fingers, vanishing into the crevices of his mind.
I sat beside him on the bench one day and tried to talk about it. “Harold, who is the woman you’re waiting for?” My voice trembled as I spoke.
His eyes softened, a small crease appearing on his brow. For the first time in days, he looked at me with real focus. His voice was barely a whisper as he said, “She’s the one who used to wait for me at the station. The one who promised she’d always be there.”
A wave of realization hit me. I understood now. This wasn’t just a fleeting memory; this was part of his life before me. He had loved someone else before, and perhaps he was still holding onto that love in the fragments of his mind.
I took a deep breath and reached out, taking his hand. “Harold, I’m here. I’ve come. I love you, too. I just don’t know how to reach you anymore.”
A flicker of recognition passed across his face as he gently grasped my hand, but it quickly faded, like a shadow. He smiled, but it wasn’t the smile I knew. It was a soft, distant smile, like he was smiling at someone far away.
Weeks went by, and though his memory stayed anchored in the past, I continued to sit with him on that bench, watching the world around us change with each passing sunset. The doctors called it Alzheimer’s—slow, cruel, and irreversible. I had hoped that Harold wouldn’t be affected this way. I had hoped I could help him, bring him back to me. But the more I tried, the more I realized how powerless I was.
One evening, after another quiet sunset, I sat beside him, the weight of unspoken words pressing heavily on my heart. How much longer could I wait? After all these years of supporting him and sharing our life together, it felt like I was losing him—to a world that was beyond my reach.
I murmured softly, mostly to myself, “I’ll be here. Even if you forget my name, I’ll still be waiting.”
The next morning, while preparing breakfast, I found something new. Harold had a small, folded piece of paper in his coat pocket. The handwriting was his, but it looked different—wobbly, shaky—and my heart skipped a beat. It wasn’t the confident, bold strokes I remembered. The letters were uncertain, fragile.
I opened it carefully and read:
“I’m waiting for you, lady with the kind eyes.
I always will.”
For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. The words were for me, but they were written for someone Harold believed was still coming. Then it clicked. I wasn’t just some far-off memory from his past—I was the woman with the gentle eyes. All along, he had been waiting for me.
I was overwhelmed with emotion, but I knew then that this was about more than just me taking care of him. This was about the bond we’d built over the years. Even as his memory faded, our love remained constant, though it had transformed into something quieter, more patient. I realized I didn’t need to keep reminding him who I was—he knew, deep down, that I was the one he loved.
As the sun began to set that evening, I joined him again on the bench. He was already sitting there, his gaze fixed on the horizon, waiting.
