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She says； 〃I'm sorry。 I don't understand anything that's happening to me right now。 Even you。 When I listen to you talk I feel like I should know you； but I don't。 I don't even know my name。〃 She wipes at her tears and says； 〃Help me； Duke； help me remember who I am。 Or at least； who I was。 I feel so lost。〃
I answer from my heart； but I lie to her about her name。 As I have about my own。 There is a reason for this。
〃You are Hannah； a lover of life； a strength to those who shared in your friendships。 You are a dream； a creator of Happiness； an artist who has touched a thousand souls。 You've led a full life and wanted for nothing； because your needs are spiritual and you have only to look inside you。 You are kind and loyal； and you are able to see beauty where others do not。 You are a teacher of wonderful lessons； a dreamer of better things。〃
She does not respond。 Instead she stares at me for a long while； until our breathing coincides。 In。 Out。 In。 Out。 In。 Out。 Deep breaths。 I wonder if she knows I think she's beautiful。
〃Would you stay with me a while？〃 she finally asks。
I smile and nod。 She smiles back。 She reaches for my hand； takes it gently and pulls it to her waist。 She stares at the hardened knots that deform my fingers and caresses them gently。 Her hands are still those of an angel。
〃e；〃 I say as I stand with great effort； 〃let's go for a walk。 The air is crisp and the goslings are waiting。 It's beautiful today。〃 I am staring at her as I say these last few words。 She blushes。 It makes me feel young again。
SHE WAS FAMOUS； of course。 One of the best southern painters of the twentieth century； some said； and I was； and am； proud of her。 Unlike me； who struggled to write even the simplest of verses； my wife could create beauty as easily as the Lord created the earth。 Her paintings are in museums around the world； but I have kept only two for myself。 The first one she ever gave me and the last one。 They hang in my room； and late at night I sit and stare and sometimes cry when I look at them。 I don't know why。
And so the years passed。 We led our lives； working； painting； raising children； loving each other。 I see photos of Christmases； family trips； of graduations and of weddings。 I see grandchildren and happy faces。 I see photos of us； our hair growing whiter； the lines in our faces deeper。 A lifetime that seems so typical； yet unmon。
We could not foresee the future； but then who can？ I do not live now as I expected to。 But I am not bitter。 Our lives can't be measured by our final years； of this I am sure； and I guess I should have known what lay ahead。 Looking back； I suppose it seems obvious； but at first I thought her confusion understandable and not unique。 She would forget where she placed her keys； but who has not done that？ She would forget a neighbour's name； but not someone we knew well or with whom we socialized。 Sometimes she would write the wrong year when she made out her cheques； but again I dismissed it as simple mistakes that one makes when thinking of other things。
It was not until the more obvious events occurred that I began to suspect the worst。 An iron in the freezer； clothes in the dishwasher； books in the oven。 Other things； too。 But the day I found her in the car three blocks away； crying over the steering wheel because she couldn't find her way Home； was the first day I was really frightened。 And she was frightened； too； for when I tapped on her window； she turned to me and said； 〃Oh God； what's happening to me？ Please help me。〃 A knot twisted in my stomach； but I dared not think the worst。
Six days later the doctor saw her and began a series of tests。 I did not understand them then and I do not understand them now； but I suppose it is because I am afraid to know。 She spent almost an hour with Dr。 Barnwell； and she went back the next day。 That day was the longest day I have ever spent。
Finally he called us both into his office and sat us down。 She held my arm confidently； but I remember clearly that my own hands were shaking。
〃I'm so sorry to have to tell you this；〃 Dr。 Barnwell began； 〃but you seem to be in the early stages of Alzheimer’s。。。”
The words echoed in my head： the early stages of Alzheimer’s…
My world spun in circles； and I felt her grip tighten on my arm。 She whispered； almost to herself： 〃Oh； Noah 。 。 。 Noah 。 。 。”
And tears started to fall。 It is a barren disease； as empty and lifeless as a desert。 It is a thief of hearts and souls and memories。 I did not know what to say to her as she sobbed on my bosom； so I simply held her and rocked her back and forth。
The doctor was grim。 He was a good man； and this was hard for him。 He was younger than my youngest； and I felt my age in his presence。
We rocked to and fro； and Allie； my dream； my timeless beauty； told me she was sorry。 I knew there was nothing to forgive； and I whispered in her ear。 〃Everything will be fine；〃 I whispered； but inside I was afraid。 I was a hollow man with nothing to offer。
I remember only bits and pieces of Dr。 Barnwell's continuing explanation。
〃It's a degenerative brain disorder affecting memory and personality。 。 。 there is no cure or therapy 。 。 。 there's no way to tell how fast it will progress 。。。 it differs from person to person。 。。。 I wish I knew more。 。 。 。 Some days will be better than others。 。。。 It will grow worse with the passage of time。 。 。 。 I'm sorry 。 。 。〃
Everyone was sorry。 Our children were brokenhearted； our friends were scared for themselves。 I don't remember leaving the doctor's office； and I don't remember driving Home。 My memories of that day are gone； and in this my wife and I are the same。
It has been four years now。 Since then we have made the best of it； if that is possible。 Allie organized； as was her disposition。 She made arrangements to leave the house and move here。 She rewrote her will and sealed it。 She left specific burial instructions； and they sit in my desk； in the bottom drawer。 I have not seen them。 And when she was finished； she began to write。 Letters to friends and children。 Letters to brothers and sisters and cousins。 Letters to nieces； nephews and neighbours。 And a letter to me。
I read it sometimes when I am in the mood and； when I do； I am reminded of Allie on cold winter evenings； seated by a roaring fire with a glass of wine at her side； reading the letters I had written to her over the years。 She kept them； these letters； and now I keep them； for she made me promise to do so。 She said I would know what to do with them。 She was right； I find I enjoy reading bits and pieces of them just as she used to。 They intrigue me； for when I sift through them I realize that romance and passion are possible at any age。 I see Allie now and know I've never loved her more； but as I read the letters； I e to understand that I have always felt the same way。
I read them last three evenings ago； long after I should have been asleep。 It was almost two o'clock when I went to the desk and found the stack of letters； thick and weathered。 I untied the ribbon； itself almost half a century old； and found the letters her mother had hidden so long ago and those from afterwards。 A lifetime of letters； letters professing my love； letters from my heart。 I glanced through them with a smile on my face； picking and choosing； and finally opened a letter from our first anniversary。
I read an excerpt：
When I see you now—moving slowly with new life growing inside you—I hope you know how much you mean to me； and how special this year has been。 No man is more blessed than me； and I love you with all my heart。
I put it aside and found another； this one from a cold evening thirty…nine years ago：
Sitting next to you； while our youngest daughter sang off…key in the school Christmas show； I looked at you and saw a pride that es only to those who feel deeply in their hearts； and I knew that no man could be luckier than me。
And after our son died； the one who resembled his mother 。 。 。 It was the hardest time we ever went through； and the words still ring true today：
In times of grief and sorrow I will hold you and rock you； and take your grief and make it my own。 When you cry； I cry； and when you hurt； I hurt。 And together we will try to hold back the floods of tears and despair and make it through。
I pause for just a moment； remembering him。 He was four years old at the time； just a baby。 I have lived twenty times as long as he； but if asked； I would have traded my life for his。 It is a terrible thing to outlive your child； a tragedy I wish upon no one。
They went on； this correspondence of life and love； and I read dozens more； some painful； most heart…warming。 By three o'clock I was tired； but I had reached the bottom of the stack。 There was one letter remaining； the last one I wrote to her； and by then I knew I had to keep going。 I lifted the seal and removed both pages。 I put the second page aside and moved the first page into better light and began to read：
My dearest Allie；
The porch is silent except for the sounds that float from the shadows； and for once I am at a loss for words。 It is a strange experience for me； for when I think of you and the life we have shared； there is much to remember。 A lifetime of memories。 But to put it into words？ I am not a poet； and yet a poem is needed to fully express the way I feel about you。
So my mind drifts and I remember thinking about our life together as I made Coffee this morning。 Kate was there； and so was Jane； and they both became quiet when I walked into the kitchen。 I saw they'd been crying； and without a word I sat myself beside them at the table and held； their hands。 And when I looked at them； I saw you from so long…ago； the day we said goodbye。 They resemble you and how you were then； beautiful and sensitive and wounded with the hurt that es when something special is taken away。 And for a reason I'm not sure I understand； I was inspired to tell them a story。
I called Jeff and David into the kitchen； for they were here as well； and when the children were ready I told them about us and how you came back to me so long ago。 I told them about our walk； and the crab dinner in the kitchen； and they listened with smiles when they heard about the canoe ride； and sitting in front of the fire with the storm raging outside。 I told them about your mother warning us about Lon the next day—they seemed as surprised as we were—and yes； I even told them what happened later that day； after you went back to town。
That part of the story has never left me； even after all this time。 Even though you described it to me only once； I remember marvelling at the strength you showed that day。 I still cannot imagine what was going through your mind when you walked into the lobby and saw Lon； or how it must have felt to talk to him。 You told me that the two of you left the inn and sat on a bench by the old Methodist church； and that he held your hand； even as you explained that you must stay。
I know you cared for him。 And his reaction proves to me he cared for you as well。 Even as you explained that you had always loved me； and that it wouldn't be fair to him； he did not release your hand。 I know he was hurt and angry； and tried for almost an hour to change your mind； but when you stoo