She has mild Alzheimer's, so of course she doesn't remember that just three minutes ago she had already told you about her husband's (who died seven or eight years ago) clay sculptures that he made without any toothpicks to hold them together.

We’re in her living room, my boyfriend and I, on the sofa. There’s room for her, his grandmother, if we "scootch", but she dances over and sits on his lap anyway.

She wants to play hostess, and keeps asking if we want anything. At first we demur, even though we both know we want every cookie and Hershey’s kiss in the house. Eventually we say yes, we’d love some tea, acting as if we are responding to a first offer. She’s in the kitchen getting stuff together, so I hop off to see what she's doing.

One "Your house is lovely," and I get the grand tour.

A never-used living room, complete with sentinel Steinway black baby grand. Untouched bedrooms in silent waiting, a la a bed-and-breakfast. A two-piece cut glass butter dish that her great-grandmother brought over from Germany in 1858. A complete set of sterling silver, nesting in flannel-lined dividers inside a marble-topped sideboard, gleaming although it hasn't been polished for years. Her doll from over 80 years ago, porcelain perfect, unblinking, and gorgeous, makes me want her owner never to die.

Then back to the kitchen, and "I'm making tea for someone, right?"