Too much stuff and not enough space

Well, it happened yet again. I foolishly took stuff over to grandma's house with me to do. Paperwork, tatting, schoolwork. I honestly don't know why I bother. I mean it's not like I'm going to ever waste the opportunity to get to hear her talk. One day, that voice will be only a memory trapped in my mind that my ears long to hear again.
The greatest fear I have is not remembering any of it. There's no way I can possibly retain the 92yrs of memories she shares. It's not like my mind is one of those space bags you get that you can seal those precious words away to open up at the exact time you need to hear them again. It is the very definition of too much stuff and not enough space.
Still, after almost 40yrs I find myself learning something new about this woman who has known me all my life. I find new common experiences we've shared decades apart. For instance, we both have periods of our lives that have been blocked from all memory because of traumatic, though very different situations. The feeling of lost time and regret those blocked memories bring are the same though. Listening to her speak is more than just loving her, it's healing for both of us. 
And then there are new tidbits of info I'm finding out. My grandpa did, in fact, go back to school following the war to get his high school diploma. Her grandpa owned the first grocery store at 19th & Heights Blvd where his picture still hangs today. The house I've heard so much about on 3rd Street was moved off the property to Fairbanks & is some sort of historical marker - or was at one point. Stories of family members long gone or cousins barely known to me are as fresh on her memory as if it just happened yesterday.
And still, I know I won't be able to remember it all. I will remember her voice though. I will remember the pain in her words or the light in her eyes as she spoke. I will hold tightly the lessons she teaches from the stories she tells. I will hold tightly to her as long as I can. And I will always remember this time with no regret for the paperwork stayed in the pink polka-dot bag where it belonged, the tatted cross still waits, and the schoolwork will be there tomorrow.