I show a picture of my negative COVID test and put my face near the screen, my black mask covering half of it. I get a printed visitor’s pass and one to hang around my neck. The woman at the front desk tells us to have a nice visit.
You are sitting with a woman at a table, your lunch finished and already taken away. You immediately recognize my mom when we walk through the door.
Your shirt is from my sister, green and white stripes with ties around the cuffs that you insist on holding onto. Your hair is now gray and you need a wheelchair but you are still the same person that you’ve always been, still my grandma.
We visit with you in the library. You point at things you see and although your words are jumbled, your voice and cadence of speech are the same. We show you pictures of family members and pets and my cat makes you smile. When I show you a picture of my daughter you say “Yup, that’s me as a girl back when I knew things.”
My mom pushes your wheelchair and we take you on a walk. We visit a sensory room with ocean music and blue lights. Paper jellyfish hang from the ceiling. You’re curious about the laundry room doors and want to go inside, but we keep walking. We’re joined by three other residents, all women, and they tell us about the big dog that recently visited.
I thought I would feel sad seeing you here, and a part of me does feel sad, but not in the way that I expected. Here, you are safe and your home is bright with lots of windows and a garden. The people look happy, you look happy. But I know that you are losing your words and your memories.
My mom pushes you as far as you can go, and when we reach the exit we say goodbye. When we first arrived, you were ready for us to leave right away, but now that we are going, you seem unsure. I hope you can see my eyes smiling as I give you a hug. It is a hug that I’ve felt many times, a hug that has been with me my entire life, a hug that I can still receive because you are still here. When we part, a staff member waits with you as we wave until the doors are closed.
There is a feeling of loss but you are still the woman who visited me on my fifteenth birthday because I was home alone. You are still the woman who drove to my soccer games, emailed me when I was in college, squirted a mountain of whipped cream on my sundaes. You are still the woman who made me feel warm and safe and loved even if you don’t remember these things.
I will hold these memories for you. They are a part of me, you are a part of me, and that is something that can never be taken away. We can still make new memories together—we still have time. They may scatter and disappear as soon as I leave you, but I will write them down, tuck them away in my mind, and keep them safe.