A favorite doll, her childhood games,
You want her to know how much you care.
She can’t remember her children’s names.
Blank eyes, no recognition there.

The little girl she used to be
Has now returned in her sweet mind.
Though our Aunt Rose is what we see,
A shriveled girl is what we find.
Though we despair, and feel so sad,
To find she doesn’t remember us,
Her past is part of what she had.
So try to smile; don’t make a fuss.

At least her mind has found some peace,
And the pain of losing loved ones is gone.
From her agony she has found release,
As to her childhood days she is drawn.
Oh, what a blessing old age can be,
As it soothes and heals a broken heart,
But because we know it’s not us she sees,
We shed a tear as we depart.
We must remember this is part of her, too
And trust the Lord to make things right.
This is the girl we never knew,
Not Aunt Rose, but a child this night.