My grandmother pointed at a picture of a six-year-old me and asked, "Sweetie, do you see that?"  Studying my younger self, I smiled and nodded.     "That's my granddaughter," Grandma said. "She lives in Connecticut. She must be.'.Well, I've forgotten how old she'd be now!" My smile froze and my hands began to shake. My grandmother had Alzheimer's disease. It seemed impossible for her to be unable to look after herself. Gradually, not remembering where she placed her glasses became not remembering where her house was, which became not always remembering my name. My birthday gifts from grandma used to be highly expected; she always knew exactly what to get and her cards would make me smile. Now, my gift from her is really from my father, who buys a present in her name since she doesn't remember when my birthday is.^birthday card without her writing just reminds me that my grandmother isn't the same anymore.     I feel sad about it and I find a great comfort through writing. Writing my memories on paper helps me to deal with what is happening and to see Grandma as the~she truly is. Strangely  enough, recording my sadness reduced~of the pain. I know it's her strength that pulls me through the hard times. So now, when I sit on the chair next to Grandma and know she can't remember my name, I swallow the bitter medicine of disappointment and smile. The author's smile froze because her grandmother  _
couldn't remember her forgot how old she was knew nothing about the picture wouldn't live with her anymore