The kind of memories that are meant to make you smile, wince, or suddenly crave a Big M milk and a mince and cheese pie from the school tuck shop for $2.
Or maybe some Tangy Fruits, as you spend your Saturday morning taping songs off the radio onto a cassette.
But this one’s a little different.
There are still memories here … like the family car being packed to breaking point for a summer holiday.
Dad swearing as he played luggage Tetris in the driveway.
Mum telling you to put on more sunscreen while you sat in the backseat and debated who ate the last chip, all before leaving the driveway on Nevada Rd.
But today isn’t just about looking back. It’s a reminder. A quiet one.
The kind that taps you on the shoulder and whispers, “Hey, don’t forget.”
September is Alzheimer’s Awareness Month.
And for those of us who’ve watched someone we love slowly fade from themselves, it hits differently.
My mum has Alzheimer’s.
She once had a mind like a steel trap — the kind that never forgot a promise, especially if it involved you cleaning your room in exchange for a 20c lolly mixture.
Which, in my case, was always 70% milk bottles. My least favourite.
Mum’s way of making sure you “didn’t eat them all at once” — which was easy, because I never wanted to eat them at all.
Stories were her thing.
She told them, retold them, and knew exactly when to bring them out for maximum embarrassment.
Like the time I “got lost” walking home from school. In reality, it was one wrong turn and a full-blown meltdown.
A kind stranger rescued me using the address Mum had written inside my school bag, complete with a crooked love heart.
Now, she sometimes struggles to remember who I am.
That’s the cruel magic trick of Alzheimer’s.
It doesn’t just steal the big stuff — the weddings, the milestone birthdays.
It chips away at the small, ordinary things that hold life together.
It’s like watching someone’s photo album fade, one page at a time, one photo at a time.
And it’s not just the person with the disease who loses something.
Families lose too.
The inside jokes. The running gags at dinner. The way Mum used to describe every single thing (and most people) as “lovely” until it became its own family joke at Christmas.
But don’t worry, I’m not here to plunge us into despair.
I still believe in finding the light, even if it flickers like a dodgy bathroom bulb.
Like the time we were out for lunch and everyone was politely tiptoeing around the topic of vaccinations.
Not Mum.
She cannonballed straight into the middle of it, like a sweet manu off the wharf, arms wide, smile wider.
Alzheimer’s is a thief. A quiet one at first. It misplaces a name, a birthday, a favourite recipe.
Then, slowly, it takes more.
Eventually, it takes the ability to care for yourself, to recognise faces, to connect.
And yet, in the middle of that loss, there are moments you’d swear were stitched with gold thread.
A song plays on the radio … one they haven’t heard in decades, and somehow every lyric comes back.
A joke lands and they laugh, that same old laugh you grew up with, the laugh you miss.
A hand is held, a smile flickers, and for a split second, there’s recognition.
Those moments can’t be planned. You don’t expect them. But when they happen, they’re enough to remind you that someone is still in there.
I know some of you reading this are walking the same road.
Maybe you’re caring for someone. Maybe you’ve just had the diagnosis.
September is about awareness, yes, but it’s more than a ribbon or a pamphlet.
It’s about talking.
About telling your stories — the good, the hard, and the sometimes funny.
It’s about supporting the people doing the work, like Alzheimer’s NZ, who help families, carers, and those living with the disease every day.
Because kindness, I reckon, is one of the best tools we’ve got.
So tell your stories while you can. Share them. Laugh at them. Write them down.
Keep the memories alive, even if they start to fade.
Because while Alzheimer’s can steal names and dates, it can’t erase love.
And that’s worth remembering.
