Steven LaChance Blog

I was about four years old when one of my earliest memories unfolded—a simple, magical day in St. Louis.

It was sunny, and my mom and I set out for a walk, just the two of us, in search of ice cream. Every step felt like an adventure. I remember the rhythm of our footsteps on the sidewalk, the comforting warmth of her hand in mine, and my clumsy little dance as I sang Georgy Girl. Moments that, even now, feel like tiny snapshots frozen in time.

We wandered through familiar streets until we reached a weathered stone wall enclosing a convent. Nuns moved quietly across the grass, their presence calm, almost otherworldly. The whole scene—golden afternoon light, hushed voices, the rustling of leaves—felt like something sacred, though I wouldn’t have had the words for it back then.

At some point, we crossed a busy street, and from a nearby window, a radio spilled out the opening notes of Downtown by Petula Clark. That song became the heartbeat of the day, its playful, soaring melody wrapping the moment in something close to magic. Even now, hearing it pulls me straight back to that walk—when the world was big, simple, and full of wonder.

That memory, though, has changed over time. These days, it carries a different kind of weight. Alzheimer’s is taking my mom piece by piece, and conversations that once felt ordinary now feel fleeting, precious. Songs like Downtown and Georgy Girl used to be just happy reminders of childhood. Now they echo with something else—a longing, a quiet ache.

I still see that old stone wall sometimes in my dreams. I still hear those songs. And when I do, I’m caught between the joy of what was and the grief of what’s slipping away. But even as memories fade, some things don’t. That day, that love—it’s still here, still mine to hold.