It was a nightmare. Ever since my mom was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, I was shattered. The strongest woman I’ve known was fading, forgetting everything. Yesterday it got worse. I found her in the kitchen, looking so lost—again. I called her, but she just handed me this crumpled note. It said, “FIND BONNY!” I had no clue who Bonny was.
Neither did she. We flipped through photo albums, old letters, her contacts—nothing. I tried to get her to let it go, but she wouldn’t. She just kept saying it was really important. It was breaking me.
The next day, I found her outside in the garden. And what she was doing… Oh God, it wrecked me.
She was on her hands and knees, fingers clawing into the soft earth, her sun hat askew. Morning light glinted off the tiny silver trowel she was clutching in one hand. Dirt smeared her cheeks, and her floral blouse was stained with fresh grass clippings. When I saw her, my breath caught in my throat—this wasn’t just a bit of absentminded gardening. Mom looked like she was frantically searching for something, unearthing clumps of soil as though treasure lay beneath.
“Mom?” I called softly, stepping onto the dew-laden grass. She didn’t answer. She just kept digging, shaking and muttering under her breath. As I drew closer, I heard her fragile voice trembling with the same words, over and over: “Bonny… Where is Bonny? Bonny, Bonny, Bonny…”
A lump formed in my throat. I crouched down beside her, placing a hand gently on her shoulder. “Mom, you’re gonna hurt yourself.”
She paused, blinking at me as if just noticing I was there. Then she thrust the trowel into my hand, as if I might magically know where to dig next. “Help me,” she pleaded, her eyes watery with desperation. “We need to find Bonny!”
I swallowed hard, forcing a comforting smile. “I—I will, Mom. Let’s just go inside for a minute. Get cleaned up. Maybe have some tea, okay?”
At first, she resisted, scrabbling one-handed in the soil. But when I gently tugged her arm, she relented, letting me guide her back toward the house. My mind spun with questions: Who on earth was Bonny? Why did Mom think she was buried in our backyard? Or was she even talking about a person?
After leading her into the kitchen, I poured two cups of chamomile tea, stirring honey into hers—she always loved it sweet. Mom sat at the table, staring at her dirt-caked fingernails. Her gaze flicked up to me, lost and pleading. “We have to find her,” she said again, voice quavering. “I just know it’s important.”
I tried not to cry, but tears stung my eyes. “I know, Mom,” I said softly. “We’ll figure this out together.”
We sipped our tea in silence for a moment. Outside, a breeze rustled the garden she’d left in disarray. The note she’d handed me the day before—“FIND BONNY!”—burned in my pocket. I’d scoured her photo albums and diaries last night, searching for the name Bonny, but came up empty. Perhaps it was a friend from her distant past? A cousin or a childhood pet?
As she finished her tea, Mom’s eyes took on a slightly sharper focus. It was fleeting, but I recognized that moment of clarity she sometimes had. “I used to have a friend,” she murmured, half to herself. “A best friend, back when I was a little girl. We’d ride our bikes up and down Elm Street. She was… oh, she was fearless.”
I leaned forward. “Was her name Bonny?”
She pressed a hand to her temple, wincing. “I… Maybe. I can’t remember.” Then, the clarity vanished like a wisp of smoke, and she fiddled with her empty mug. “But we have to find Bonny,” she repeated.
Later that afternoon, I phoned my aunt Carol—Mom’s younger sister—hoping she’d shed some light on this elusive Bonny. Carol lived out of state, but she knew family stories as well as anyone. When I mentioned the name, she let out a thoughtful hum. “Bonny… I don’t recall a friend by that name,” she said. “But I do remember your mom had a horse for a while, back on Grandpa’s ranch. That horse’s name was Honey, though. Or maybe it was Dolly? I might be mixing things up.”
My heart sank. Another dead end. “Anything else? A stuffed toy, a dog, an imaginary friend?”
Carol hesitated. “Well, she had a favorite doll that she carried everywhere. She called it ‘Bunny’—like rabbit. But that’s not Bonny. Sorry, kiddo, I wish I could help more.” She sighed, her concern evident. “How’s she doing otherwise?”
I swallowed. “Not great. She’s fixated on this. Keeps saying we need to find Bonny. It’s like it’s the only thing she can remember.”
Carol’s voice softened. “I’m so sorry. Let me think if there’s anyone else we could call. An old neighbor maybe? Or check her high school yearbook? You never know.”
That night, after Mom was asleep, I continued my investigation. The attic became my next target. Dust motes danced in the beam of my flashlight as I rummaged through boxes of letters and old keepsakes. The place smelled of aged paper and cedar wood. Every creak of the floorboards echoed in the silence.
Box after box revealed half-forgotten fragments of her life: postcards from a summer camp, wedding invitations, random Polaroids of vacations. Then, at the bottom of one battered cardboard crate, I stumbled upon a small locked tin. The label read “Private.” My pulse quickened. I carefully pried it open with a screwdriver. Inside, I found a stack of letters tied with a ribbon, along with a few black-and-white photographs.
I flipped through the letters first—most were from an old sweetheart named Mark, predating my dad. Then I found an envelope with a single page inside, dated 1970. It was in my mother’s teenage handwriting, scribbled in purple ink. A few lines caught my eye:
“Bonny has changed my life. She’s the only one who understands me. Every time I feel alone, she’s there. I need to keep her a secret, though, or they’ll take her away. Sometimes I think Mom and Dad suspect something. But I can’t lose her, not ever…”
My heart pounded. So Bonny was something important to her as a teenager. But who was “they”? I rifled through the black-and-white photographs. Most showed my mom in her teenage years, wearing bell-bottom jeans, leaning on an old barn fence, or posing with friends. Then, near the bottom, I found one that made my breath hitch: my mom, maybe fifteen years old, crouched beside a battered trunk. She was smiling, cradling something in her arms—a small, scruffy dog. A faint pencil scrawl on the back read, Me and Bonny, 1970.
A dog. Bonny was a dog.
I spent a sleepless night wrestling with my emotions. Why would Mom mention Bonny now, decades later? And why did that letter imply she had to hide the dog from someone—maybe her strict parents? Or a landlord? All I knew was that Bonny must’ve meant the world to her. If Mom’s fractured mind latched onto the name, maybe she was reliving a time of comfort or love. The question remained: how could I help her “find” Bonny now?
The next morning, I woke Mom gently. She seemed calmer, the anxious urgency somewhat diminished. Over breakfast, I took her hand. “Mom, I think I know who Bonny was,” I said softly. Her eyes flicked to mine, brightening with a hint of hope. “You had a dog named Bonny when you were a teenager, right?”
She stared at me, confusion and longing in her gaze. Then her expression crumpled. “Yes,” she whispered, tears filling her eyes. “They took her away from me. I wasn’t allowed to keep her, so… so Dad said he’d find her a new home. I never got to say goodbye properly. I still dream about her sometimes.”
My heart ached. “Oh, Mom…” I squeezed her hand. “That’s what this is about?”
She nodded, tears slipping down her cheeks. “She’s been gone so long, but I miss her. I just—I can’t remember things clearly, but I feel like I need to find her.”
I pulled her into a hug, blinking back my own tears. “I’m so sorry. I had no idea.”
She cried quietly against my shoulder, and I patted her back, wishing there was a way to ease her pain. That night, I resolved to find a way to give her closure—some way to help her let go of this desperate search, or at least transform it into a memory that comforted instead of tormented her.
The next few days, I put together a small plan. First, I asked Mom if she had any pictures of Bonny aside from the black-and-white snapshot I’d found. She said she wasn’t sure but described how Bonny looked: a wiry terrier mix with a brown patch over one eye. The sweetest dog in the world, apparently.
I spent hours printing that old photo on better-quality paper, enlarging it. Then I framed it with a simple wooden frame. After that, I visited a local animal shelter, partly to donate in my mother’s name—maybe it would bring some comfort to support other dogs in need. The woman at the shelter was kind, letting me spend time petting a few dogs. The entire visit gave me an idea: maybe I couldn’t bring Bonny back, but I could help Mom honor her memory.
When I returned home, I found Mom staring blankly at the TV. She turned as I entered, and her face lit up with that fleeting recognition that comes and goes. I sat beside her on the couch, my heart thudding. “Mom,” I said gently, “I know we can’t find the real Bonny. But I want to show you something.”
I handed her the framed photo. She squinted, then gasped softly. Her fingers traced the black-and-white image. “Bonny,” she breathed. “That’s her.”
Tears pricked my eyes. “I’m sorry you lost her, Mom. But I want you to keep her picture in your room, so she’s always with you.”
Her gaze shifted from the picture to me, eyes glistening. “Thank you,” she said in a trembling voice.
We sat there for a long moment, enveloped in a gentle hush. Finally, she said, “I wish she could have known you. You would have loved her.”
I swallowed thickly. “I’m sure I would have. She looks like a sweetheart.”
A fragile smile touched her lips, and for the first time since that dreaded “FIND BONNY!” note, I saw a semblance of relief in her expression.
A week later, her anxiety about Bonny lessened. Instead of harping on “finding” the dog, she’d quietly take the framed photo from her dresser and hold it to her chest. Sometimes, she still murmured that she missed Bonny, but it was gentler now, less frantic. She’d show me the picture and recount small stories: how Bonny once followed her to school, or how she’d sneak the dog scraps under the dinner table. Even with her memory compromised, those scraps of recollection lit a spark in her eyes.
It wasn’t a magic cure for Alzheimer’s—nothing was. But giving her a tangible piece of Bonny’s memory seemed to soothe that restless part of her mind that cried out for something lost. Some days were still hard, unbelievably so. But at least she wasn’t rummaging through the garden, or pacing the kitchen with that desperate stare.
One afternoon, I found her humming softly as she dusted the picture frame. She glanced up at me, smiling. “Bonny was special,” she said, placing a careful kiss on the glass. “I’m glad I can remember her.”
I felt tears threaten again, but a warmth filled my chest. “Me too, Mom.”
It’s been a few months since the “FIND BONNY!” incident. Mom’s illness is still progressing, and each day brings new challenges. Yet the picture of Bonny remains on her nightstand, a small anchor to a cherished piece of her past. Sometimes she forgets who I am, but she still recognizes that photograph—still calls Bonny by name, as though the dog never left.
Watching her cling to that memory has taught me how fragile and precious life is. Even the smallest threads of our past can provide comfort when everything else unravels. Alzheimer’s might take away many things, but it can’t completely erase the love and attachment we carry inside. Bonny was a symbol of that love for my mother, a connection to her teenage years and simpler times.
Thank you for reading this story. If any part of it resonated with you—if you’ve dealt with a loved one’s memory slipping away, or if you’ve experienced the power of a cherished photograph—please consider sharing it with someone who might need a little comfort. And I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments below. Sometimes, the stories we exchange can be a lifeline of understanding and hope for one another. Let’s keep the memories alive, even when time and circumstance threaten to take them away.
