I have a lovely neighbor.

I actually have a lot of lovely neighbors, only as with everything there are exceptions, and one of my neighbors is such a bitter asshole that I have no doubt his CV lists his personal hobbies as engineering pestilence, alternative applications for wasps and drowning kittens. But I digress.

My neighbor Craig is lovely. He lives in a small, simple house with a flower garden in the front that is stunning with its beauty and care. A few years back, I even (unknowingly at the time) bought flowers he’d entered in the village fete.

He’s a tall, quietly religious, elderly man who takes care of his ailing wife. He is always so friendly and kind and always has been – he has a prolific vegetable garden, so abundant that he’d often cross the road with a handful of tomatoes or courgettes that he’d shyly offer “for your twins”. His daughter and her family live nearby, and they are lovely and the kids are unfailingly polite and sweet.

I asked Craig earlier this year how his garden was doing. He sighed sadly and said that he’d been neglecting it this year. His wife, Bea, had gotten worse and he had no chance to garden.

We knew Bea was not well. When we first moved in she was always so cheerful and happy, and when the twins arrived she’d dash across the road whenever she saw us, excited to see the babies and chirping about how wonderful it would be to see them going up and down the road on their bicycles, how lovely it was to have young children back on the lane. It’s unusual for someone to be happy to know young children would be about, and ours were the only youngsters (at the time) on the lane.

We knew things were faltering. She still looked happy and healthy, but whenever she saw us she’d come up to us. “Hello,” she’d say, holding out her hand. “I’m Bea, you must be new to the neighborhood. And you are…?”

Craig would laugh gently. “You know who they are, Bea, and you know the twins, too!” We would all smile, but quietly we understood things were not right.

And they’re not.

A few weeks ago I was working from home. Craig was out in the road, doing maintenance to the bumpy gravel lane that we all use. I wandered out to ask if he needed help and to see how he was.

He greeted me warmly, as he always does. We chatted about the lanes – Southern Gas re-doing all the pipes, super-fast broadband coming in – and then I asked about Bea.

He smiled sadly and looked at the ground. “She’s not too well,” he said softly.

“I know,” I replied. We’ve seen her head out, quickly walking from the house, and minutes later you’ll see a terrified Craig look around, dashing after her. If we’ve seen her go, we point which direction we saw her heading, and he’d wave a thanks and take off running. “What can we do to help?”

“There’s nothing you can do, but thank you all the same. She has Alzheimer’s. When she goes on her walks, she thinks she’s walking to her parents’ house, only her parents have been dead for 30 years. When Bea goes walking, she thinks she’s a child. She’s just looking for home.” He pauses, looking at the house he and Bea have lived in for their entire life together. “She doesn’t even know who I am most of the time,” he finishes softly. “When she does remember, she tells me that she’s married to a young man, not the old man that I am.”

I reach out and grasp his shoulder. “Craig, I am so sorry. Is there anything we can do? Want us to sit with her and you can have some rest, need some help in the house or anything?”

Craig smiles. “That’s very thoughtful, but our daughter lives nearby, she comes over regularly. I’m able to keep up with things, it’s just you have to watch her all the time. Turn around and she’s out the door, and last week I finally found her walking down the middle of the road in heavy traffic.”

I wince. Bea wouldn’t stand a chance against a car.

“Four years ago we toured America,” he says softly. “Now we can’t even take a drive to the coast like we used to, because she doesn’t know who it is she’s in the car with, even though we’ve been together for so long. We were sweethearts, see. She’s my whole world.”

“If there’s anything you need, please, honestly don’t hesitate to knock on our door. Anything.” I try to smile but don’t want to come across as patronising.

“Thank you, dear, but I can’t ask for help. Anyway, we get by. I take care of her and always will.” He looks at me. “She’s at a centre today. Twice a week the council have a centre for people with Alzheimers. She loves it there, and most of the time she comes back from the centre and for that afternoon and evening, she knows who I am.” He smiles broadly, his whole face coming to life and he even stands a little straighter. “That’s the best thing ever, when she knows who I am. It’s like having her back again, even if it’s only for a little while. It’s Bea again, and she knows me.”

I imagine them young again. Him, so tall and caring as he dances around with Bea, who is his opposite. Tiny, pert nose, soft swingy bobbed hair. I picture them 50 years ago, laughing as they dance around the lounge of their home together, his feet getting in the way and the hem of her skirt swishing behind his calves with each step they take. So young, so in love. Music comes over the wireless and the roots of his garden are digging in, grabbing hold, ready to transform their little part of the world. I imagine them planning their lives together with the whole world in front of them – home, church, children, gardening, grandchildren. Their lives are ahead of them and as long as they have each other, they have all they need or want.

I felt like crying. Our lovely neighbor with a morning to himself, and he’s out with a pickaxe to fix the communal road. We talk a little while longer, and then I leave him with the promise that we’re here if he needs us.

On the weekends when I bake, I now make double portions and walk them across the road. Blueberry muffins and apple strudel won’t make it all go away, but they’re the only things I can do to help that he’ll accept. The road watches out for Bea and let’s Craig know if she’s taken off. I look out for his happiness on the afternoons when she comes home and knows him for the man she loves.

It would be easy to rail against this insidious disease, and I do. Two of my great-grandmas died of Alzheimer’s and it robs you and everyone who loves them. It takes away little pieces of who you were and replaces them with a sieve that drains everything away.

But I look at Craig and how he looked when he lit up talking about when she recognized him, and I think: What an amazing love they have, what a very precious gift, one he holds on to every single day.

I celebrate in the luck they had in finding each other years ago.

It’s all I can do.

-S.