Granny forgot me. 

When I was very young, we lived two hours away from her grand and lovely Victorian-style house, on the top of a pleasant neighborhood hill. Sometimes, because I would cry when a visit was over, she would send me home with one of her sweaters. 

Taking it with me during a nap—and smelling Granny in the soft fabric—made me miss her less. I loved her sweaters. I loved staying the night at her house, and crawling into her bed early in the morning, so I could brush her golden hair while she told me childhood stories. I loved following her out into the backyard, where the flower beds fumed a floral smell, and watching her fill up the galvanized wash tub with the watering hose. She’d plop me into the cold water, hand me a yellow rubber duck, and let me splash and play in the summer heat. 

The older I became—and the less enormously her sweaters fit my frame—the deeper our bond grew. In that creaking two-story house, we’d go upstairs, find an old box of antique trinkets, and sort through them together. Sometimes, she’d smile and tell me what it felt like, the first time Granddaddy kissed her on the back porch. How handsome he was. How wildly she felt pulled toward him. 

I told her things, too. 

I’d cry to her sometimes, when I was sad. Or go on a hunt with her, looking for whatever object she’d recently misplaced. Or kiss her cheek, when it was time to go back home. 

We had memories together. My whole life was filled with pieces of her. 

And then she forgot me. 

It happened so slowly, in the beginning, that it wasn’t painful. First, it was just my name, but that wasn’t terrible, because she still had that warm, familiar expression when she looked at me. I realized some of the memories were obscure. They were no longer painted vividly in her mind, like they were in mine. 

But she knew me, and that was all that mattered. 

Until that changed too. 

How very sad the house became, how very old and dim, when I walked through the door and she no longer smiled at me. The sensation was so wretched. Looking at her, grasping her soft hand, squeezing—but knowing it didn’t bring her comfort, because I was a stranger. 

I wanted to rip the memories out of my heart and put them back into hers. I wanted her to remember she loved me. That we used to talk and laugh and work side by side in the flower beds. That I still wore her sweaters. That I still loved the smell of her. That I needed her. 

Now, she’s gone. In heaven, I imagine Jesus put all those lost memories back into her soul, where she treasures them as much as I do. That’s a comfort. And even though the experience hurt, every pain has a way of blooming into something sweet and trickling its way into one of my novels. 

This pain? 

Well, you’ll find it tucked away inside my new release, The Red Cottage. Where Tom loves Meg, and Meg loves Tom—but she loses their memories. When you read this story, I hope you feel the angst of loving someone who has forgotten you, and the beauty in fighting for that person anyway. 

Like Tom, may God grant us all the perseverance to love immeasurably and persistently.

Even if the other person is no longer able to love us back. 

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