The night the storm came, the whole town seemed to hold its breath. Windows rattled in their frames, trees bent low as if bowing to some unseen force, and the sky cracked open with thunder that shook the walls. In that moment, I thought only of her—my grandmother, Rosa—whose memories had been slipping away piece by piece long before the storm arrived.
She had been living with us for almost a year. Alzheimer’s had already stolen names, dates, and sometimes even faces, but her smile never left. The doctors had warned us: the decline would come like waves, each one pulling something further out of reach. Still, Rosa found ways to anchor herself. Every morning, she’d sit near the window and hum songs from her childhood. I didn’t always recognize them, but she sang as if the world depended on it.
That night, when the power cut out, the house was plunged into darkness. My parents scrambled for candles and flashlights, while the wind outside howled like something alive. I found my grandmother sitting quietly in her chair, her hands folded in her lap. The storm didn’t scare her. Instead, she began to hum.
It was faint at first, just a thread of melody, but as the storm raged louder, so did her voice. I realized she was singing one of her old lullabies—the one she used to sing to my mother when she was little. My mother joined in, her voice trembling at first, then growing steady. I sat beside them, adding my own voice even though I barely knew the words.
The storm was merciless, but in that candlelit room, there was a strange peace. We sang until the thunder softened into rain. My grandmother’s eyes were closed, but her face glowed with something I hadn’t seen in months: clarity. When she opened them again, she looked right at me and said my name. Clearly. Without hesitation.
I can’t describe what that felt like—after so many days of confusion and silence, hearing her speak my name with certainty was like a light cutting through the storm. It was only a moment. The next morning, the fog of memory had returned, and she didn’t recognize me again. But I carry that night with me like a lantern in the dark.
The storm passed. The trees stood broken, the streets flooded, and neighbors picked through debris in silence. But inside our home, we held onto something stronger than fear: the echoes of a song, a fleeting moment of recognition, and the reminder that even when memories are lost, love has its own way of remembering.
That was the last storm we weathered together. But sometimes, when the night is heavy and the wind starts to rise, I still hear her humming—faint, steady, carrying me through.
