The Fear of Being Forgotten

My grandfather is ninety-two. He lives in a nursing home in Ohio, and I visit him twice a year, which is not nearly enough.\n\nLast month, he held my hand and called me by my father's name.\n\n"My name is Sarah, Grandpa," I said gently.\n\nHe blinked, confused, then a light flickered. "Sarah. My little Sarah."\n\n"Yes," I said, tears burning in my throat.\n\nHe closed his eyes. "I don't remember what I had for breakfast. But I remember every word of those stories I used to read you."\n\nIt's the cruelest thing about growing old — you lose the present, but the past stays vivid.\n\nI made a promise: I'll visit more. I'll tell him who I am, every time, even if he forgets a minute later. Because being remembered — truly remembered — is the greatest gift we can give each other.