A friend of mine (also named Jason) shared a memory he had with his grandmother who was dealing with the memory loss that comes with Alzheimer's.

My friend walks into the room where his grandmother is. She is a shell of her former self, but looking at her he sees flashes of her younger self. He knows that her days are scary and full of strangers. He is saddened not only with the quality of life that she currently has, but he is keenly aware that the shared memories they had are no longer shared. He is the sole care taker of the past they created together. It was a humbling experience.

She slowly moves her head up from her spacey daze that she falls into for so much of the day. He wonders what she is looking for in those blinkless stares. Is she trying to make sense of her surroundings? Is she wanting to say something but cannot find the words? Is she looking for her name?

Before he is able to get a word out to greet her, she looks right into his soul and says, "I don't know who you are, but I know that I love you."

And that one sentence is the only memory of his grandmother that he guards and protects with his life. It is the the one memory that trumps all the other memories that he is the care taker of. It is the one memory that tells him all he needs to know about his grandmother.