Harold used to leave me tiny love notes in odd places—inside coffee filters, taped beneath the sink—always saying, “Just in case you forget how loved you are.” Now, it’s my turn to remind him.
It started with misplaced keys, forgotten names. One day, he looked at me and asked, “What’s your name again?” My heart broke quietly, but I kissed his cheek and smiled.
He began calling me “the nice lady,” “scarf girl,” or “peach blouse.” Never by name. But his face still lit up when I walked in.
Each night, he sat on the bench he called “the waiting place,” watching the horizon. “She always comes around now,” he’d whisper, waiting for someone from long ago.
One morning, I found a shaky note in his coat:
“I’m waiting for you, lady with the nice eyes. I always will.”
And suddenly I knew. He was waiting for me all along.
Even if his memories fade, our love hasn’t. It’s changed—quieter, deeper, patient. Love isn’t about perfect memory. It’s about showing up.
So I sit beside him and whisper, “I’m here, Harold.”
Because love, even lost in time, always finds its way home.
