After some years in a home, with dementia, my mum sadly died. My dad had devotedly visited her every day, and since she didn't know who he was, showed his ongoing love by making her a tiny jam sandwich each day (bread cut really thin, carefully buttered, then spread with just the right amount of jam, and cut into quarters)
We had all gathered round his house after her death and my family had just been saying to each other "poor Arthur", when, left on my own for a moment I heard, clear as a bell in my ear, my mother say - "poor Arthur? What about ME?"
It was just the thing she would have said
I wish I could hear her again. But I suppose I do every day in me.