I only had a week to say goodbye

Part 1 (If I don't laugh I will cry)
  
I saved her mind to a memory stick    
so I can reboot each time she gets sick.    
Her version control says don't ask me    
and she's started to sing in MP3.    
Each time she tries to remember a name    
she asks for a password and starts again.    
Old memories don't seem to play anymore    
because she's lost the driver for her MP4.    
Sometimes little thoughts keep coming back    
but it's usually just the audio track.    
I'm beginning to think her file is corrupt    
as most of her speech is foul and abrupt.    
The surgeon says he can't remove the tumor    
with a 20% chance of a weird sense of humor.    
Half of me wants to accept defeat,    
and the other half can't cope with Ctrl Alt Delete.  
   
   
Part 2 (The battle is over)  
   
Sunlight streams on pallor mortis,    
with a kiss, I quietly pass you my warmth    
and hold my hair as it falls    
damp on the grey of your cheek.    
   
The difficult calls are being made,    
he can only chew the words    
so I swallow them for him,    
hard as the red plastic phone.    
I sound like a mourner    
in this fake monotone drone.    
   
Curtains close and roast to ash    
hands held out to be took and shook,    
sympathetic smiles, wrinkles of the past.    
Your music reminds me of Saturday nights.    
   
Ham and piccalilli on buttered crusty bread,    
saggy settees and late night TV,    
those were the times you held me close    
and I needed your comfort the most.    
   
Foot falls wet on a mountain path,    
dust drops soft to cobwebbed grass,    
I look for a sign    
to find this spot again and I laugh    
before I cry, as I do every time.