The morning light came slowly, spilling through the tall windows of my quiet home. It caught the dust in the air and turned it into golden motes that drifted lazily, almost like tiny memories suspended in the room. I sat at the desk, the blue diary open before me, pen trembling in my hand. My chest felt heavy, but there was a strange clarity, a sense that today, I would finally honor her — all of her, in every word I wrote.
Her voice floated back to me, as vivid as if she were in the room: "Live your life fully, my Aarohi."
I closed my eyes and let the memory wash over me. I saw her small hands guiding me, her soft voice correcting my mistakes, her gentle scolding that always carried love, the warmth of her body when I hid in her embrace during storms of all kinds. I remembered the smell of her hair, the faint hint of jasmine and turmeric that clung to her even after laundry. I remembered the lullabies she sang, off-key but perfect to my ears, the stories she told about her childhood, the little rituals of our Tuesday market walks, the mangoes we fought over, the way she'd wrap me in her shawl and tell me I was brave, even when I was terrified.
And then I remembered the harshness of Alzheimer's — the cruel erosion of recognition, the blank eyes, the polite confusion, the whispered "Aarohi?" followed by nothing. The disease had taken her from me slowly, like water dripping from a stone, eroding everything, until there were only fragments left.
I picked up the pen and began to write.
"Ma, today I walked through the market where we used to go every Tuesday. I bought mangoes — the sweetest ones, though none could ever match your pick. I laughed because I remembered how we would fight over them, how you'd pretend to scold me while secretly smiling. I miss you in ways that words can barely hold. I miss your voice, your hands, your warmth, the way the world felt safe when I was in your presence. Even though you may not remember me, I remember you — every moment, every glance, every lesson, every laugh."
Hours passed. I didn't notice the sunlight shifting across the room, the quiet hum of the city outside, or the rain that began to fall gently against the windows. I wrote and wrote, letting my grief pour out onto the pages. Each word became a bridge to her, each sentence a way of holding her close when her body, her mind, her memory could no longer be mine.
I recalled the small moments — the way she would sit by the window in the afternoons, humming softly; the mornings when she would wake me with gentle prods, reminding me of school or chores; the evenings when she would tuck me in, smoothing my hair, whispering that I was loved more than the world itself. Even in the times when I was angry, when I fought with her over trivial things, I now understood that each act of hers had been love disguised as discipline, care hidden in words I didn't always appreciate.
Her absence was not a void. It was a presence in a new form — a ghost that lived in the patterns of the house, in the smell of jasmine tea, in the warmth of sunlight, in the sound of rain, in the songs that drifted from memory like scattered petals. I realized that even Alzheimer's could not touch her heart, not truly. It could erase recognition, but not essence. She was still here, in fragments, in traces, in everything I carried forward.
I rose from the desk and walked slowly to the window, clutching the diary to my chest. Outside, children laughed and played, a little girl tripped over a stone, and her mother caught her. I smiled through the tears, remembering myself as that small girl, running to my mother with scraped knees and tearful eyes, only to be met with comfort and warmth.
I whispered to the wind, my voice barely audible but steady:
"I will carry your name, Ma. I will love as you loved me. I will teach the world the quiet power of a mother's love, the strength in memories that do not fade, and the beauty of hearts that remember when minds forget."
A soft breeze touched my face, carrying with it the faintest trace of her perfume. I closed my eyes and felt her there, not in memory, not in body, but in every fragment of my heart, in every beat that carried love forward. I pressed the diary to my chest and walked slowly to her photograph, the last image of her when her eyes had known me fully. I touched the frame lightly, letting the tears fall freely, and whispered once more:
"I will carry you, always. Every day, in every step, in every smile, in every act of kindness. Even if the world forgets, I will remember. And that will be enough."
I placed the diary on the shelf beside her photographs, feeling the weight of her life and love settle gently in the room. The house was quiet, yes, but it was also full — full of memory, full of love, full of the echoes of a life that had given me everything.
For the first time in months, I felt a strange peace. Not because the pain was gone, but because I understood something essential: love is stronger than memory. Love survives even when minds fail, even when words vanish, even when the person you hold most dear is no longer with you in the way you once knew.
The sun rose higher, and I stepped outside, feeling the warmth on my face. I could still feel her hand on mine, guiding me, holding me, reminding me that I was never truly alone.
And in that moment, I realized — I am no longer the child she held, but I carry her spirit, her strength, her kindness. And as long as I breathe, her love will live.
Because even if the world forgets, love remembers.
And I will carry it forever.