I lost little bits and pieces of the woman I knew over the years.  
It wasn't noticeable at first.  
A few forgotten things in rooms.  
A few stories retold for the third time.  
But now it has become something that stands out when you talk to her.  
The woman that raised me.  
Sometimes forgot about me.
Forgotten things were left everywhere as she didn't remember putting them there.  
Sometimes she forgot about me for the day, only to remember later.  

No one raises a child with the thought that their parents may forget them.
But it happened and nothing can change that.  

Her mind seemed to have lost the parts that I loved and so did she.  
But I still love her.  
This complete stranger that raised me or at least that is who she sees me as.  
As I listen to her tell me the same story for the 10 time in a row.  
I still love her.  
Even if she has forgotten me.