Gently Aching

I was watching a movie the other night. Nothing grand—just a quiet scene in a café. A warm glow, that soft murmur of people at ease. It was the kind of place we used to visit. The kind of place we both loved, even though I always did the ordering. He’d look at the menu, maybe point at something, but in the end, he’d smile and say, “You choose. You know what I like.”

It wasn’t about the food. It never really was. It was about the comfort of knowing each other so well. The shared looks across the table, the quiet conversations, the way he’d watch me when I wasn’t watching. Little things—things you never think will become memories. Until they are.

As I watched that scene unfold, it hit me: We won’t have that again. Not like before. Dementia has stolen that simple, beautiful part of our life. It crept in slowly, then suddenly—changing everything while we weren’t looking. The one who used to make me laugh with a well-timed joke, who knew how to show up for me in quiet, constant ways… He’s still here. But not always.

And I ache for what we’ve lost.This disease—it’s cruel. It doesn’t just steal memory. It steals shared routines. The ease. The unspoken. It takes the little things and makes them unreachable.

And every now and then—like in that movie—it all rushes back. The beauty of what we had. And the sorrow of knowing it’s gone.

Grief like this doesn’t end. It comes in waves. Sometimes gentle, sometimes overwhelming.

You find yourself smiling at a memory, and then you’re in tears because you know you’ll never live that moment again.

I cried that night—not for what we had, but for what we’ll never have again. For all the café scenes that won’t happen. For the conversations that will never come. For the one who still sits beside me, trusting me to order— but no longer able to meet me in that same familiar way.