She doesn’t say our names anymore. Not mine, not my sister’s, not even my mom’s. Sometimes she’ll look at us like we’re strangers who just showed up in her living room out of nowhere—and honestly, that part still stings, no matter how many times it happens.
But here’s the thing: every single time we visit, she smiles.
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Like, really smiles. That wrinkly-eyed, full-face glow that used to greet us after school when she’d hand us warm bread rolls and tell us the neighbor gossip. She doesn’t recognize us now, but something deep in her still knows—these people, they matter to me.
She’ll say things like, “You look so kind,” or “I feel like I know you from somewhere.”
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But when she says it, there’s this peacefulness in her voice that makes it clear she’s not confused—at least, not in the way we usually think of confusion. It’s more like she’s aware of something beyond the names, beyond the faces. She sees us through a deeper lens, one that’s hard to explain, and it comforts me in a way I didn’t expect.
Still, it’s hard. Really hard. Some days, it feels like we’re losing her bit by bit. There’s a distance now, an invisible wall between us and the grandma we used to know so well—the one who would tell us stories of her childhood, the one who would remember everything, from our school projects to our favorite colors. The one who always had a solution for whatever small problem we faced, no matter how silly it seemed.
But these days? These days, the only thing she remembers is how much she enjoys having us around, how happy it makes her to see us—whoever we are—sitting by her side.
Last Saturday, my sister Natalie and I sat with Grandma in her living room, flipping through an old photo album. Grandma’s hands trembled slightly as she touched the edges of the pages. She ran her fingers over the pictures like she was searching for something, some connection that might remind her of us, of her past.
“These were good times,” she said, staring at a photo of her and my granddad at a family picnic. The smile on her face was warm, nostalgic, like she was reliving a moment in time, even though she didn’t fully remember it.
“Grandma,” I said softly, “who’s that in the picture?”
She looked at it for a moment before shrugging. “I don’t know,” she said, “but they look happy. I think I knew them, though. Or maybe I still do.”
Her words hung in the air. It’s a strange feeling to see someone you love so deeply in this way—so distant, yet still somehow holding on to the warmth that used to define them. I wanted to cry, but I didn’t. I just smiled and said, “Yeah, they do look happy.”
After a few minutes, we switched the album to a page with a picture of the whole family, from when I was a kid. There were my cousins, my parents, and all of us huddled together for a family portrait. The faces we all knew so well, captured forever in that one moment of time.
But when Grandma saw the photo, she didn’t say anything. She just kept running her fingers over it, as if trying to bring the faces to life, searching for something that would click. Then, she looked up at us, her expression soft but uncertain.
“Are you sure I know them?” she asked, her voice gentle. “They look so familiar, but I just can’t seem to place them.”
I could feel the lump in my throat. There it was again—the reminder that she didn’t recognize us anymore. My heart ached, and I wanted to say something reassuring, something to make it better. But what could I say? How could I explain to her that the people she was looking at were her family, her blood? How could I make her remember us when she no longer could?
We spent the rest of the afternoon just sitting with her, talking about the past, even though we knew she wouldn’t fully grasp who we were. But when it was time to leave, something happened that I didn’t expect. She reached out for my hand, her grip surprisingly strong for someone who was so fragile in other ways.
“I may not remember your names,” she said, her voice low but full of meaning. “But I know I love you. That’s enough, right?”
I didn’t know what to say. All I could do was nod, the tears I had been holding back finally slipping down my cheeks. And in that moment, something shifted inside me. It was as though the sadness that had been hanging over me was lifted, even just for a little while.
I realized that maybe this was the gift in all of it—this simple, pure love that Grandma still held for us, even if she couldn’t remember our names or faces. Maybe love isn’t just about remembering the details. Maybe it’s about the way we make each other feel, the way we show up for one another, even when the memories are fading. It’s in the feeling of being loved, even when the recognition isn’t there.
A few days later, my mom called me to say that Grandma had started asking about the next time we’d come to visit. “She said she wanted to see her ‘special girls’ again,” my mom laughed, her voice filled with the warmth of knowing that, despite the confusion, Grandma still felt the bond between us.
And that’s when I realized something: I couldn’t hold onto the past so tightly. The Grandma we knew—the one who remembered every detail, every story, every name—wasn’t the same as the Grandma we had now. But that didn’t mean she was any less important, any less loving, or any less connected to us. She was still our Grandma, just in a different way.
There’s a kind of grace in letting go, in accepting the changes that life brings. It’s not easy, but it’s necessary. We don’t always get to choose how our loved ones change, but we can choose how we love them through those changes. And I’m starting to understand that the most important thing is not that she remembers everything, but that she remembers the feeling of being surrounded by love—and that’s something she’ll always have.
One evening, just before we left her house, I knelt down beside her chair. “We’ll be back soon, Grandma,” I said, holding her hand again, just as she had held mine so many times before.
She smiled, a soft, radiant smile that made her eyes twinkle, even though they were clouded with confusion. “I know,” she replied. “You always come back. You’re always here when I need you.”
And that’s when it hit me—maybe we don’t have to hold on to the past to keep our loved ones close. Maybe what matters is that we show up, that we keep loving, even when the names slip away and the faces blur. The moments we share with them, no matter how small, are enough. They’re more than enough.
Sometimes, the greatest gift we can give someone we love is our presence. To show up, even when they can’t fully remember who we are, and to offer them our love, just as we always have.
So, to anyone out there going through something similar, I want to remind you of this: love isn’t about remembering every detail. It’s about showing up, being there, and cherishing the moments you have, no matter how fleeting they may seem.
If you know someone who might be going through something similar with a loved one, share this with them. Let’s remind each other that the heart remembers what the mind sometimes forgets.
