The afternoon sun rested nicely on Wanda's face. With her eyes nearly closed she felt almost happy, listening to soft, even snores from her husband. However, when Robbie received the irrevocable judgment a few years ago declaring his `Golden Years' would be spent in a Godless Limbo instead of traveling the country in a 35 foot  motor home or playing leisurely rounds of golf, she'd given up any notion of comfortably closing both eyes for a long time. And feeling happy was a rarity now so she'd learn to settle for contentment. She could live with that.

 "Wanda?" Robbie bolted upright from the faded plaid blanket that accompanied them on countless picnics. "Wanda?"

 She recognized an edge of panic in his voice, rolled nearer and sat up. She began rubbing his back lightly in small circular motions. "Right here, sweetie."

 Robbie blinked, like the sun bothered his eyes, but she knew he was trying to find his way home, back to her, back to now. "I dreamt..." He paused, searching for words.

 Wanda saw the beginning of the intense frustration he felt when he lost thoughts, dreams or memories. And lately Robbie seemed to be losing everything. "Tell me after lunch," she said, knowing he'd probably forget it in a few minutes.

 "But--"

  She tweaked his cheek. "I brought your favorites." Wanda brushed away a lock of his hair and marveled at Robbie's full, shining head of hair and the lack of time-ticking lines on his face. How could Alzheimer's continue slaughtering his mind like a single- minded soldier, yet leave his hair and face so perfect? Cruel and ironic, like the damned disease. "Hungry?" she asked.

 "I guess."

 His voice was monotone and she wondered if the day would end up sour.

  "It's all here," Wanda laughed and forced a smile down to the hollow of her stomach. She dragged a large basket closer they'd bought in a funny little shop somewhere in the south of France during an unplanned trip they'd taken about twenty years ago. Their no reason vacations, Robbie called them.

 "Watermelon?" he asked.

 "It's late October, sweetie. Any melon worth eating is gone now. Besides you don't like that anyway." Watermelon had been too messy for her once excessively neat husband. Images of a future Robbie, one depending on the most basic of needs crashed into her head, but she willfully drove them away.

 "But I've got all your favorites," she said. The experts advised her to continuously remind him of the past. His past. Their 42 years of marriage past. Bring out old photos. Play old songs. Give him a whiff of familiar scents and maybe like a bloodhound, he'd pick up the trail of his lost life. She sighed. Sometimes it felt like pouring water into a sieve for all the difference it seemed to make, but she kept trying. What else would she do?

 It was not unlike a divorce or a death, she thought. Eventually she'd be forced to relive the past memories alone, good and bad. Soon Robbie wouldn't correct her when she looked at a photo of County Limerick's countryside and tell her it was Cork. And if she forgot the names of the couple they met one sunset in Key West at Mallory's Wharf, who else would know?

 A trickle of sweat ran down her back as the autumn sun focused mercilessly on her wool sweater. Although the afternoon felt like June, she realized it was probably their last picnic of the season. New England winters came too soon. Before long, days grew shorter and drifting snows would lock them inside. She peeled off her sweater and began to unbutton Robbie's, but he stubbornly moved away. "I'm not hot," he said.

 "Okay." Wanda took out containers holding his favorites--potato salad, large Greek olives, pecan pie and lastly, her infamous roast beef and boursin sandwiches she'd slathered with garlicky mayo and horseradish. That sauce alone could trigger memories the best drugs on the market couldn't do, she thought wryly.

 As she doled out the food between them, she noticed Robbie looking out toward the thicket of trees where they used to ride their Morgans. After a good ride on a meandering trail through the woods, they would release the horses to graze, flap out the blanket to picnic and sometimes drink too much wine that might result in sweet lovemaking. A blush scalded her face and she thought it lucky blankets couldn't talk.

 "Sweetie?" she said, realizing with a small shock that recently she'd started overusing that word, one she didn't think she'd ever called him before because it seemed a somewhat insulting term of endearment for an adult, perhaps better suited for small children or dogs. When had this become a habit? "Robbie, your wine."

 With the sun gleaming on his thick brown hair, he turned around and took the glass she handed him. "To us," she said. They clinked the glasses together like always and the echoed down the hill.

 "Grape juice."

 "That's right, swee--, Robbie."

 "No, you said wine," he said. "But it's only white grape juice." He enunciated each word as though speaking to someone slow. "We haven't' had wine in--" he paused, "--in a long time."

 "No, I guess not. Let's just think of it as wine that didn't quite finish. But still good."

 Robbie looked down at his glass and swirled the juice around like it was an expensive French Cabernet instead of a $3.29 bottle of Welch's. "It's sort of like me, isn't it? I'll never get to finish, to age into a good wine. I'm going to end up vinegar."

 She looked closer at her husband and into the clarity of his bright blue eyes. "Oh, Robbie," she said softly. He'd found his way back. Shamefully, she realized that although she thought she'd had the monopoly on patience, it was Robbie who sometimes endured the way she'd treated him like a child when he had known better and had kept silent. She'd only seen the disease that humiliated him enough on its own. She squeezed his hand and a tear rolled down her cheek, followed by another. "Don't worry. It'll be okay."

 He laughed without smiling. "You used to be honest," he said, then shook his head. "No, it won't be okay, Wanda. It'll suck. The whole thing sucks. When you agreed to better or worse, you might have thought twice if they said Alzheimer's. The worst thing is that I've dragged you along for my bumpy ride to Hell."

 Dozens of comforting platitudes raced through her mind, but she dismissed them.  She nodded. "It does suck, but you're right. I did agree to stick with you for better or worse and I meant it." She kissed his hand. "And if we start falling into Hell, I'll just have to bring Heaven to you." So sue her for that one platitude.

 Robbie took a bite of his roast beef. "Whew. Speaking of Hell, this is as hot as ever."

 She laughed and happiness zapped though her veins. "What wonderful weather for almost November."

 "My dream," he said suddenly. "We were riding, like we used to..." he stopped and pointed his head toward the trail in the woods...."when the woods kept getting thicker and the trail smaller and we had to ride one at a time instead of side by side. Soon, I got so far ahead of you that I lost sight of you and for, I was absolutely terrified. So I called out your name, over and over." Tears streamed down his cheek and he wiped them away quickly.

 "And did--"

 Robbie held up his hand to stop her. "You were there. I couldn't see you anymore and I knew I was totally lost, but I heard you calling out my name. And I felt you all around me, like a hug. I knew that no matter where I'd be, you'd find me."

 "Like a homing dove," she said.

 "Pigeon," he corrected.

 "Pigeon. Right." What difference would it make if names or places fell out of their minds. She would be his memory for as long as it took. And when the day came that he forgot her name, she would know that somewhere deep inside him there was a place she would always remain and that no disease could ever erase that or her memory of him.

 "I suppose we can just think of this as my personal no reason vacation," he said.

 Wanda embraced her husband and together they looked at the small trail in the thicket. Maybe the season had ended, but it was a good last day.

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