I’d sit by her bed, listening. Sometimes she’d hold my hand, but more often she’d hold her pictures…

She asked me once who I was, I said, “No one…”, she replied, “I wonder sometimes if that’s who we all are…”.

We’d sit, still sometimes, sometimes she’d talk about her memories. I’d listen, watching them like a movie playing out across the window above the yard.

Then one day she was gone. I didn’t expect it, not that day anyway… I think it was a wednsday

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