The Tuesday after she’d responded to @junebuggie, Ann met Luke at the door with a smile he hadn’t seen in many months. “Wow,” he said, “Someone’s feeling good!” Mark greeted Luke. He had the same silly smile on his face. “Okay, something’s going on here!”

“Ann’s got some exciting news,” Mark responded. “I’m late, so I’ll let Ann tell you herself.” He gave Ann a long embrace and a quick kiss. “Enjoy!” he told her and winked as he left.

“Well,” Luke shrugged, “this will pale, I’m sure, in comparison to your news,” he said and handed her a DVD of the first movie they had ever seen together.

Ann giggled, her eyes sparkling, and took it from him. “Thank, Luke!” She took his hand and led him to her computer. He thought she’d insert the DVD, but she put the movie down and opened a web page. “Luke, remember I was . . .write before.”

“Of course. You always had a way with words, Ann. I followed your blog, remember, Ms Pulitzer.”

“Look.” Ann pointed to the letter she’d written in response to @junebuggie.

He read what she’d written and then said, “Ann, that is really good!”

“No . . . look more,” she said. There were many comments on Ann’s reply. Luke started reading them. Most were notes from other members of the writing group expressing happiness at seeing @annamanna back online. And most of them conveyed sympathy over her diagnosis. The response from @junebuggie was the longest and most special.

@annamanna, you write so well. I cried when I read your letter. It was like you were my mom, saying the things she can’t say. What a blessing that you can still write. Would you consider writing your story? I would treasure it and I know my friends who have family with dementia would also value this. It would help remind us that even if we can’t see our loved ones, they are still there. I know that it is not easy for you, but would you consider it? @junebuggie

Luke knew this was what Ann wanted him to see. He smiled and turned toward Ann.

“I’m going for write my story, Luke.” He didn’t remember the last time he saw her so excited. “I’m going to write my story!”

Over the course of the next eight months Ann laboured over her story. There were days when Mark found her in tears at the computer. “I feel like bottle cork. So much here . . .” She touched her chest. “But not come out here.” She touched her head. Mark would hold her. Sometimes he would try to help get the words down. Sometimes she was too tired and they’d listen to Bach and eat ice cream for dinner before going to bed. Ann seemed to need more sleep than ever before.

Sometimes he’d find her staring at the screen in elation, full of excitement about how much she’d been able to write. She always wanted Mark to read and correct her work. She knew there were errors. But Mark realised she wasn’t aware of the extent of her disability. As the months went on her language became more and more garbled. He got to the point where he was half guessing at the meaning of what she’d written. She always seemed happy with his editing.The disease was gaining momentum and he knew they were approaching a day when the writing would stop.

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