There are some of my elderly relatives, supposedly my distant grandmas, in India, whom I would meet once in a while, on some occasions. They would make me sit by their side and talk about something, which eventually would take them through their memory lane and continue telling me their flashback. The first time I would listen to every bit of it with utmost interest, but my next meets with them would make me listen to the same stories again and again, as though the flashback was that of my own. Yet, I would sit and listen to them, like my favorite song replayed umpteen times. It gave me a weird satisfaction as though I achieved something.
To my disappointment, two among these people hardly recognized me on my last visit. They are dementia patients.
I somehow feel good for having listened to them, then. I am guilt free that I dint avoid them or make them feel like they were boring.