When my father was dying, and I held his hand and talked to him, one memory flashed in my mind: my sisters and I playing in the leaves with Dad one Sunday afternoon in front of our house. I know it was a Sunday because my father was almost always working Monday through Saturday. For all I know, it was as much of a chore as he didn't feel like doing.
But at the end of his life, somehow, in the depths of a brain that couldn't remember hours before, this memory appeared like magic. That is what I remembered last.