As I drive down the road I pass familiar houses. The homes flood me with memories. I remember the faces. I remember the look in your eyes. The smile when I came through the door. The pleading look when the pain was bad, asking me to help. The look of fear, not knowing what was ahead. The faraway look at the end when I knew you were looking at someone else.

I remember the dreams you shared, your regret of your losses. I remember the gentleman who said, “I’ll never be able to plow the back 40 again.” I asked, “Did you ever?” You smiled and said, “No, but now I never will be able to.”

I remember the stories you told me of your past, your life, your family. I drive by and I remember your love of classical music and of fishing. I remember how your husband taught me how to make scalloped potatoes and how we laughed together at his attempt to convince us that Barley Green was good for us. “How could anything that tasted that bad be good for us,” you asked.

I remember the gentleman who was cared for by his daughter and they lovingly told me of their being blessed by sharing this time together. She realized all the things he had taught her over the years, this lesson was the most important.

I remember stories of how you met, your travels, and the wonderful pictures that you showed me that recorded all those memories.

I remember stories about how your love had carried you through the times of good and bad, happiness, and trials, and now this last struggle, and the couple who had held hands all night and couldn’t now that he was in a hospital bed.

I remember the old gentleman lovingly cleaning his wife, smiling and saying, “I should have helped more with the babies.” I learned lessons of what it takes to make marriage work. I have learned what unconditional love really is.

I remember the art, the paintings, the sculptures you created. The beautiful homes you decorated, the quilts you made. I remember the lady artist who had a refrigerator door covered with sculpted driftwood. I remember the stories of the senior fun band and I laughed to imagine it.

I remember your dog that met me at the door waiting for his treat from those I carried in my bag, the 20-year-old cat that never left your side, the birds, and the lady who had a pet frog because they didn’t allow her anything else and she had to have a pet or she became too lonely. What happened to those pets after you were gone? Did they get good homes? Does someone now love them as you did? I remember your appreciation for the wild ones outside and nature. I know your observations have heightened my awareness.

I remember your families and wonder how they’re doing. Are their hearts still heavy? Did they sell the house? Did they go through your things with love and respect? Do they share memories of you? Do the ones they love honor their right to share those memories both good and bad?

Many homes, many memories. My heart becomes heavy with sadness at the same time it’s also brightened with the fact that I knew you. I think to myself, “Why couldn’t I have met you sooner or known you longer.” I’ve learned so much from you, both concrete and abstract. You’ve given me so much. I’m a better person for having known you. I pray I can live and die as courageously as you did.

Yes, I remember.

Diana L. Fors, RN is a retired hospice nurse.