I don't know why I’m even writing this, it’s not like anyone can actually do anything, right? Just… I guess I need to say it out loud, or type it out, whatever. It’s about my daughter, Sarah. She’s a teacher, high school English, which is, you know, good work. Important work. She’s 35 now. And she comes over every single day after school, because of my mom. Her grandmother. My mom. It’s just… it’s a lot. My mom, she was a librarian, you know, always had a book in her hand, always telling me to "expand my mind" or "discover new worlds." And now… now she doesn’t remember. It started slowly, the not remembering. Little things. Where she put her keys, what she had for breakfast. And then it got bigger. Asking the same question three times in a row. And then… then she started not knowing Sarah. And that’s the hardest part, I think. For Sarah, I mean. For me too, but for Sarah especially. Because every single day, Sarah comes in, sets down her bag, and says, “Hi Grandma, it’s Sarah,” and my mom just smiles and says, “Oh, hello dear. Are you new here?” And Sarah, my poor Sarah, she just smiles back, this patient, tired smile, and she says, “No Grandma, it’s me. Sarah.” And then she sits down and reads to her. Every single day. From some old collection of poetry my mom used to love. I mean, it’s sweet, in a way. Really sweet. And it’s… I don’t know. It’s a lot. The thing is, Sarah’s really good at it. Being patient, I mean. She always has been. Even when she was little, she was the one who would just… calmly explain things to me when I was in one of my *moods*. Because I was always off doing my art, you know? Painting, trying to sell my stuff at those little craft fairs that never really paid off. And I always felt so guilty, like I wasn’t giving her enough. I was chasing this dream that never quite materialized, this idea of being a real artist, while she was over there being… dependable. Always. She’s so much like her father, sometimes it’s eerie. He was always so practical. Always telling me I needed to "get a real job." And I just… couldn’t. Or wouldn’t. And now I wonder if that’s why she comes every day. Out of a sense of… duty. Or because she feels like she has to make up for my… whatever you want to call it. My flightiness. I just sit there, in the kitchen, pretending to clean or something, trying not to listen. But I always do. “Hello dear. Are you new here?” And Sarah’s voice, so steady, so… *kind*. “No Grandma, it’s me. Sarah.” And sometimes, I want to just scream. Scream at my mom to remember. Scream at myself for… for not being more present when Sarah was growing up. For being so wrapped up in my own head. And then I think, what good would that do? It wouldn’t change anything. And it’s not fair to Sarah. She’s doing such a good thing. And I should be… I don’t know. More grateful? Less… guilty? Sometimes, when Sarah’s reading, and my mom is just staring off into space, sometimes my mom will just call her “dear.” Always “dear.” Like she knows there’s someone good in the room, even if she doesn’t know *who*. And then Sarah will just look up at me, over the top of the poetry book, and she’ll give me this little half-smile, and it’s like she’s saying, “See? It’s okay. It’s all going to be okay.” And I just… I want to believe her. I really do. But it’s not okay. And I don’t think it ever really will be. But at least she comes. Every day. For her grandmother. For me, maybe. I don't know. It's just a mess, isn't it? A beautiful, heartbreaking mess. And I just… I sit here, and I watch. And I wonder what she’ll remember of me, someday. If anything. And if it’ll be a good memory. Or just… hazy. Like everything else.