He Can’t Remember my name

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He Can’t Remember My Name Anymore—But He Still Waits for Me Every Sunset

When Harold and I were first married, he used to leave love notes everywhere.Slipped into coffee filters.Tucked into the glove box.Taped under the lid of the laundry detergent like tiny treasures waiting to be found. “Just in case you forget how loved you are,” he’d say with a wink.Now the roles are reversed—I’m the one reminding him. It started with the small things.Lost keys. Missed appointments.Pauses in the middle of stories like a page had…