It is full of books and music, the folk songs my mother sang to me when I was young and the books I would devour as a child. My father talked about the day he met my mother, a summers day in Ireland. My mother who has dementia, nodded and smiled but then she said to my father "I don't remember meeting you before". My father keeps their memories safe in his box of memories when my mother loses hers.
I am sure those memories are vivid to him. She will remember bits and pieces until they totally disappear. But love remains. And that is what is important. And you are a living memory of what that love created. Blessings, FlyingHome.
