Nothing is as horrid as Alzheimer's disease. I wonder who he must have been, and what wrong must he have committed to get such a horrible thing named after him. I sat to myself quietly in the corner of the hospital waiting room. The sound of tears and empty promises filled my ears. No one here knew what really was going on, but they still managed to say that she'll get better, or that it was just an instance.

Mrs. Grisha was our neighborhood candy lady. She was coming on eighty years old and lived by herself. I could hear what I could only think of to be her son cursing himself for it. I had found her today playing in a lake nearby our school while coming out. I called the school security immediately, and due to that found myself to now be trapped in the corner of the hospital waiting room. It's not like I could leave. Apparently, that was bad luck during these things. That's what her son told me at least.

Later rather than sooner did a doctor finally come out. I don't remember caring too much about the results now that I speak of this in the future. She had Alzheimer's, and it had already gotten bad. She didn't recognize her son, nor did she recognize the pictures of her dead husband. I don't ever recall a moment in all my life that silent. That sad, and that mood changing. It was as if a rope that had been on the verge of snapping disappeared altogether.

I figured at this point I wanted to see how Ms. Grisha was holding up. One by one, we were allowed to see her. I was last, being that I was of little to no relation.

The room smelled like a dead person.

But I could hear tears.

Mrs. Grisha was sitting up on her bed, with a red scarflette in her hand.

Crying.

I knew not of what she had been crying for. But I began to start crying myself unexpectedly.

Thoughts raced crossed my head like lines pointing to who knows where.

Did a person who's forgotten everything, know how much she's forgotten?

Did it seem like to that person whose forgotten everything, that they had wasted most of their life?

Did they feel like they had skipped it?

Only later did I find out, that the little red scarflette was a gift given to her by her late mother.

A gift along with the message 'to have no regrets'.

And even though the doctor reckoned that she had no memory of this.

Mrs. Grisha had told me that herself.