“Oh, Grandma. You used to bake me cookies and give me hugs that nearly made me unable to breathe. You would send me pictures of birds from your birdhouses and birdfeeders. You let me choose what we were having for dinner. You weren’t mad if I tried something and didn’t like it, even if that meant you had wasted your money.

All these memories, these detailed descriptions of love, they flashed through my mind when I stood by your hospital bed one August morning.

And then you said “Who are you?” and those were the hardest three words to hear in my life.

The dementia would consume you- that’s what I knew then. You had tried to live your life as best as you could without telling anyone but Papa. I wish you had told me, had prepared me, but suddenly you were gone.

And I never got to say goodbye.”

My mom hugs me as I walk back to my seat, eyes stinging and tears running down my face. The funeral would be done soon, and in a couple years, Papa will join her in the grave.