I lay beside a frail old man. To me he is my father, to him I am a stranger. His illness has gulped his only treasure – his memories. He struggles with the past but everyday he cups my hands between his and he feels his blood inside of me. He lets me tend to him and I tell him the best part of his life. I tell him about Mom.

For years they were apart, living on different continents, across the seas, saving for a little home and writing to each other back ‘n forth. I’ve their letters, the epitome of their love.

It hurts to see him like this now, not able to remember her, finding it hard to believe that she would be with him, marry him and love him. Her letters makes him glow, like a child reading a fairy tale.

He sees the pain in my eyes and he holds my hand, letting the warmth from his body flow to mine and he says, “I do not remember your mother but it does not hurt me now because I am glad that she loved me. These memories of her I will not remember tomorrow but I still remember her voice. Her singing to me, the sound of her remains with me and soothes me ever since.”

He hums the song to me, my mother’s song. I hug him tightly, the disease has triumphed over his body but his love is still his.

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