There are moments in my life that I carry with me, whether they are happy ones are not.

The Easter I was given my first bike, and the beaming in my family’s eyes as I rode the bike, without help.

Or the heartbreak, my young heart endured, shattered by my first love which I thought would be a mess forever

The first time I broke curfew and the fury from my Dad, who then had to realize I was growing up as well as the beams of pride when I handed him my college acceptance letter.

Along with these, comes the memories I long for, wish I could fold them up like letters and carry them deep within my heart.

I never realized how truly fragile the mind is until I saw firsthand the deterioration of my grandfather. As Alzheimer’s forced itself upon him and he struggled at times, to even remember the day before, let alone a long-ago memory of my grandmother, his only son, or his grandchildren.

I watched the darkness cloud his eyes and confusion break in he was losing bit by bit every day.

He cursed himself, life and old age for rendering him helpless, just as I also felt the unfair and unforgiving anger of being robbed of so much.

When my Dad died, suddenly from a heart attack, I was not there. Life and a different type of disease had kept us apart and then a phone call cemented the fate I would of finality.

My Dad never saw his granddaughter. My sister never had the chance to place her newborn into his loving arms and whisper “this is your Pap”. He was not there to meet the man who became my husband and he did not walk me down the aisle.

All I have are memories. Boxes of old photos, childhood mementoes and a few prized possessions of loved ones who have passed away. They live now, only in those precious thoughts, which I will fight like hell to make sure the same terrible diseases will never take away.