Petals In The Fall -A daughter’s reflection on love, loss, and the slow unraveling of memory.

The first time she forgot my name, I didn’t cry.
Not then.
Not in front of her.

Most days, she knows me—calls me by name,
smiles when I enter the room.

But once in a great while, I catch a flicker behind her eyes.
A pause.
Like something important has just slipped out of reach.

Sometimes she says it aloud—
“I feel like I’ve been somewhere else.”

And I see it then.
The fear.
The confusion.
The fear again.

I tell her she’s safe.
I hold her hand like it’s a lifeline.
And I smile—gently—
the way you do when you don’t want to startle a bird.

There’s a hush that comes with watching someone you love drift.
Not always away, but in and out.

This version of her is softer.
Gentler.
Maybe there’s grace in that too.

It’s not loud grief.
It’s quieter than that—
more like the sound of leaves loosening in late October,
falling without fanfare.
Beautiful, even as they let go.

That’s what this has been:
a season of falling petals.

Little pieces of the woman I’ve always known—
her quick wit, her stories,
the way she used to hum while folding laundry—
each one gently loosening.

And me, learning to hold them loosely too.

I miss her in places where she still is.
But I’m learning that love doesn’t depend on perfect memory.

That presence is a kind of promise.
That recognition lives in more than names.

Some days, she’s here.
Other days, she’s farther away.

But every day, I choose to love her as she is now—
Softly.
Steadily.
Without needing her to be exactly who she was.

I don’t know how many petals are left.
I only know I will treasure each one.