Jenny was a bright-eyed, pretty five-year-old girl. One day when she and her mother were checking out at the grocery store, Jenny saw a plastic pearl necklace priced at $2.50. How she wanted that necklace! When she asked her mother if she would buy it for her, her mother said," Well, it is a pretty necklace, but it costs an awful lot of money. I'll tell you what. I'll buy you the necklace, and when we get home we can make up a list of housework that you can do to pay for the necklace. And don't forget that for your birthday, Grandma just might give you a whole dollar bill, too. Okay?" Jenny agreed, and her mother bought the pearl necklace for her.

Jenny worked on her housework very hard every day, and sure enough, her grandma gave her a brand-new dollar bill for her birthday. Soon Jenny had paid off the pearls. How Jenny loved those pearls. She wore them everywhere to kindergarten, bed and when she went out with her mother to run errands(跑腿).The only time she didn't wear them was in the shower. Her mother had told her that they would turn her neck green!

Jenny had a very loving daddy. When Jenny went to bed, he would get up from his favorite chair every night and read Jenny her favorite story.

One night when he finished the story, he said," Jenny, do you love me?"

"Oh yes, Daddy, you know I love you," the little girl said.

"Well, then, give me your pearls."

"Oh! Daddy, not my pearls!" Jenny said. "But you can have Rosy, my favorite doll. Remember her? You gave her to me last year for my birthday. And you can have her tea party outfit, too. Okay?"

"Oh no, darling, that's okay." Her father brushed her cheek with a kiss. "Good night, little one."

A week later, her father once again asked Jenny after her story, and Jenny gave the same reply.

Several days later, when Jenny's father came in to read her a story, Jenny was sitting on her bed and her lip was trembling. "Here, Daddy," she said, and held out her hand. She opened it and her beloved pearl necklace was inside. She let it slip into her father's hand.

With one hand her father held the plastic pearls and the other he pulled out of his pocket a blue box. Inside of the box were real, genuine, beautiful pearls. He had had them all along. He was waiting for Jenny to give up the cheap stuff so that he could give her the real thing.

At a clinic in Waterloo, Ontario, an elderly woman sat on the edge of a waiting room chair singing “My Heart Will Go On.” With little effort, she was able to send her sweet voice exploding into every corner of the clinic.

There was a lot of shifting in seats, but mainly they awkwardly avoid their eyes and tried to pretend there was nothing out of the ordinary going on. I was there with my father, who was getting a routine blood test, when the woman arrived. She settled into the seat directly across from my Dad. She smiled at him, and he smiled back.

My Dad had been living with Alzheimer’s (阿尔茨海默症) for several years, When he was healthy, he considered it wholly bad mannered to bring too much attention to oneself. Since Alzheimer’s has a tendency to destroy a person’s patience, Dad had experienced a few challenging encounters in the past.

Her singing began gently. I glanced over at Dad. His smile was gone, and he was staring right at her. She was staring back. I couldn’t read his expression, but it seemed to be something like confusion. I watched for any sign of a coming angry outburst. Instead, his face softened, and the tension eased in his brow.

People say that Alzheimer’s is a thief, and that it steals your loved ones slowly, day by day. But certain experiences with my Dad have allowed me to see a side of him that I never knew existed. I will hold on to those moments when he told me tender stories about when he was a child, as if he knew that he didn’t have much time left to show me who he really was. In an unexpected way, that’s what happened for me that day in the clinic. Alzheimer’s sometimes seemed to be peeling back the onion of my Dad’s true self.

When her song ended, the woman opened her eyes. My Dad was still looking directly at her.

“That was beautiful,” he said. And she smiled and said. “Thank you.”

“Your mother’s breast cancer has returned, and it’s metastasized (扩散),” said my mother’s doctor. I held the phone, tears in my eyes.

Even as a health-care professional, I had never really been able to do anything for my mother. She’d always been the caretaker, especially when I was in my teens battling my own incurable illness. She’d arranged and accompanied me on trips to the Cleveland Clinic. During those long train rides, she’d always reach into her bag and produce a gift-a Seventeen magazine-to lift my spirits.

Shortly after her diagnosis, I stopped by Mother’s house. She’d wanted to live at home to look after herself while she could, so my sister and I took turns to check in on her.

As her health worsened, Mother eventually decided to stay with me in my house on the weekends and let me care for her. After I helped her into the house, she would stretch out on the sola, my dog Spanky sleeping at her feet. I’d make us cups of Red Zinger tea. She’d look at me and say, "My purse, honey. Inside would be one of her surprises, like a bag of treats for Spanky or a new pen for me.

At the end of her life, Mother was no longer conscious. Her wish was to be in my house. The night before, I moved all the furniture to prepare for the delivery of her medical equipment. The next morning, two guys lifted the sofa to move it, making room for the hospital bed. “What do we do with these, ma’am?” one asked. I looked over. He held up two beautifully-wrapped (包裹) gifts. How had they gotten there? I’d moved that sofa the night before and seen nothing! My hands shook as I unwrapped a toy for Spanky and a box of Red Zinger tea.

At that moment, it was as if my mother spoke directly to my heart, “Our little traditions will get you through this, Roberta, even if I can’t take part anymore.”