Grandma's book appeared in her dreams during the final stages.

She couldn't remember my name anymore.
But in sleep, she read our story.
Every birthday. Every hug. Every "I love you."

The pages burned as she turned them.
Her memories were disappearing with the flames.
She'd wake knowing something precious was lost.

But not what.
I sat by her bed.
Watching her eyes search for recognition.

The book was stealing her past.
To give her peace.
Each burned page was a goodbye.

From the woman she used to be.
To the shell she'd become.
The final page read: "Remember me happy."

Then turned to ash.
She smiled.

.    .    .