"I'm an old love. Don't you remember me?"
She was about my age--70ish--but had held her beauty remarkably well. I did know her but could not quite recall. How frustrating!
"On the night train back to Texas, from California," she said. "We were together when the--the accident happened."
I could hardly speak; a trickle of memories momentarily froze all other thought.
"I remember . . . almost," I said. "And I remember afterwards. In bed. A long time in bed. And . . . someone caring for me. Someone there with me all the time."
"Yes," she said. "That was I."
And many, many more memories came flooding through my mind.
Of course I knew her. I would have no life, if not for her. She was there always, nursing me back to health.
She came to me, and I held out my arms, with the silent prayer that I would not forget again.