Free The Sweetness of Forgetting by Kristin Harmel Page B

boil. Add the peels, reduce heat, and cover pot. Simmer for 45 minutes.
    5. Remove from sugar water with a slotted spoon, and lay peels on a rack to dry. Wait at least two hours before using them in the recipe above. Dip the remainder in dark chocolate and enjoy as a snack.

    Rose
    When Rose had awoken that morning, she knew. It was just like the old days, when she’d known things deep in her bones before they happened. Those days were far in the past, but lately, as the Alzheimer’s had stolen more of the in-between, it was like the timeline of her life had become an accordion, folding in on itself, bringing the past ever closer to the present by bending and contracting the years that had gone by.
    But on this day, Rose remembered everything: her family, her friends, the life she’d once had. For a moment, she had closed her eyes and wished to drift back into the oblivion from which she’d come. The Alzheimer’s terrified her some days, but other days, it was a comfort. She was not ready for this clear window into the past. But then she opened her eyes and looked at the calendar that sat on her bedside table. Each night before closing her eyes, she crossed off the day she’d just completed. She was losing everything else, but knowing the day of the week was something she could still control. And according to the red X ’s on the calendar, today, the twenty-ninth of September, was a special day. Rose knew in an instant that the fact she’d been granted a reprieve of clarity on this day, of all days, was a sign from above.
    And so she’d spent the morning writing it all down, as best she could, in a letter addressed to her granddaughter. Someday, Hope would read it and understand. But not yet. There were still pieces missing. When Rose closed the envelope, just before lunch, she felt empty and sad, as if she had just sealed off a piece of herself. In a way, she supposed, she had.
    She carefully wrote out the address of Thom Evans, the attorney who’d drawn up her will, and she asked one of the nurses to please stamp and post the letter. Then she sat down and wrote out a list, forming each name carefully and clearly in big block writing, despite her shaking hands.
    Later that day, as she drove to the beach with Hope and Annie, she checked the pocket of her skirt three times, just to make sure the list was still there. It was everything to her, and soon, Hope would know the truth too. It was impossible to hold back the tide any longer. In fact, Rose was no longer sure she wanted to. Being a one-woman dam against a surging flood was exhausting.
    Now, as she stood on the piled rocks, her granddaughter on one side and her great-granddaughter on the other, in the fading heure bleue, she looked up at the sky and breathed in and out, in tune with the ocean, as she held the Star Pie in her hands. She threw the first piece into the water and recited the words so softly that she couldn’t hear them herself over the rhythmic rushing of the waves.
    “I am sorry for leaving,” she whispered into the wind.
    “I am sorry for the decisions I have made.” A piece of the crust landed on an incoming wave.
    “I am sorry for the people I have hurt.” The wind carried her words away.
    As she threw piece after piece of the pie into the ocean, she glanced at Hope and Annie, both of whom were staring at her in confusion. She felt a pang of guilt for scaring them, but they would understand soon enough. It was time.
    She looked back to the sky and spoke to God softly, using words she hadn’t said aloud in sixty years. She did not expect forgiveness. She knew she didn’t deserve it. But she wanted God to know that she was sorry.
    No one knew the truth. No one but God, and of course Ted, who had died twenty-five years earlier. He’d been a good man, a kind man, Papa to her Josephine and Grandpa to her Hope. He’d shown them love, and she would be forever grateful for that, because she had not known how. Still, she wondered whether he