What We Remember

When my brother’s Alzheimer’s took away our ability to talk and connect, I lost access to him—not because of distance or choice, but because of disease. It is a different kind of grief.

My brother-in-law has taped signs and reminders all over the house to help my sister be as independent as possible.

Two people can experience the exact same moment and remember it completely differently. In the chaos of a dog attack, fear, adrenaline, and position shaped what each of us believed we saw. I was injured, bleeding, and certain my dog had been in another dog’s mouth. My neighbor was just as certain that never happened. Two stories emerged from one event, and neither of us was necessarily lying. What settled the truth wasn’t memory or belief. It was evidence. A time-stamped do