text: Wife, daughter, sister, mother, friend, grandma. Of all the names I’ve been known as throughout my life, none have meant more to me than Grandma. The day your mother told me she was pregnant was the happiest day of my life. The day you were born put every other day to shame. The day I first held you in my arms made me feel more alive than any other in my long long life. Because you see, my grandchild, the first time I saw you I knew everything was going to be all right. So as the snow makes the rest of the world look empty and you sit here in my home, I want to tell you that everything will be all right. I wish I could tell you that everything will be all right. Wife, daughter, sister, mother, grandma. That day, oh that day, I remember every detail, isn’t that ironic? Winter was fast approaching and the skies blushed pink. The sun had gone into hiding and fog hung loosely around the streets. The doctor’s room was a stark contrast to the world around it. The fire was lit, giving the room a warm glow. Two leather chairs were placed opposite each other. An old coffee table separated them, decorated with a single vase holding a single flower. A single petal had fallen onto the stained wooden table. Quite informal compared to most doctors, but it fits perfectly in this ancient town. Wife, daughter, sister, grandma. The doctor’s voice was soft, gentle, comforting as if it was designed specially to make bad news seem less bad. He welcomed me in and offered me a seat. I took it willingly, glad to let my bones rest for a while. I wore my famous blue coat and the floral dress your parents had got me for my birthday. My hands clung to my stick as I lowered myself into the seat. He walked to the other and sat down with ease. My breath was shaky and my hands matched, my heart raced as I waited for the words to leave his lips. After a week of looking over my results, he had finally come to a conclusion. “You have dementia.” Wife, daughter, grandma. You see, my brain is starting to fail me. I’m forgetting the past and muddling it up with the present. I try not to let my age defy me but I keep losing my keys, my purse, my name. Some days I go to feed Buddy, not realising that he’s no longer here. Sometimes when the clock strikes 5, I expect to see Grandad walking through the kitchen door, forgetting that it’s been 27 years. My brain is starting to fail me as I forget time, and days, and loved ones. And all my old names. Wife, grandma. But my grandchild, as the snow causes the world around us to fade and this disease causes my memories to go, I want you to remember this: Every time I see you, every time I look into your eyes, I remember. I remember the first time I saw you, the first time I held you, the moment I knew everything would be all right. So, while I may not remember when your birthday is or the last time you came round for tea or, some days when my memory is at its worse, your name, I will always remember that I love you and that everything will be alright. Forever and always your Grandma.