You should see the fear in her eyes when she talks about it.

That prayer that she’s been saying for years – the other day she forgot how it started.

“What were those first few words?”

And it’s not a big deal, most might say,

But try telling her that.

Her grandmother died of dementia.

And she remembers itt clearly, clear enough to quiver and choke up when she talks about it.

“Lord, don’t let me end up like that.”

It feels like destiny – that there’s almost no way it won’t get her too. She feels like it’s at her door.

So she journals every day. She writes down her birthday, her husband’s birthday, their anniversary.

She figures, “If I write it down enough, I’ve got to remember them. Right?”

But the silence after the question floats out there, waiting for some kind of answer back.

Some kind of assurance that it’s going to be okay.

On top of that, her cat has gone missing.

And though her 60th birthday is coming up, she’s not planning a party or anything.

She doesn’t want all the glitz and glamor.

“I just want to be among the land of the living.”

She doesn’t want to be gone.

And she doesn’t want to be here, but still missing.

Like a lost cat.

Holding onto the hope that maybe, one day, she’ll come back home.