A love letter to my grandmother (before dementia takes you away completely).

On my eighteenth birthday (which was also Thanksgiving), we went out to dinner. At the table, you leaned in and asked, “Should I tell the waiter that it’s your birthday?” I was turning eighteen, passing into adulthood while still carrying my teen years and the idea of a restaurant’s worth of eyes on me was not a welcome one. I told you no. But the next time the waiter came over, you blurted, “It’s her birthday!” An entire restaurant sang to me on Thanksgiving, awkward and wonderful. Once it was over, you fretted. “Are you mad at me?” But I just grinned. “Of course not. I love that you didn’t care and just did that!” You had never seemed to me the wild one, the one to do what she wanted, to live free and daring.

That is how I will remember you.

You don’t remember your last home anymore. You remember every house you occupied before that, the ones where you grew up, the ones where you raised a family of your very own, but you don’t remember the house where you invited your grandchildren. But I do. I remember that home better than the first one I lived in. While Mom and Dad worked, you would watch me and my brother. You and Grandpa. I remember Price is Right with Grandpa while you washed dishes in the kitchen. I remember how you kept a collection of taped cartoons ready for the grandchildren to watch when we took over the living room TV. Your TV. The family room belonged to Grandpa, but the living room was yours. But you were willing to share.

You don’t remember my childhood anymore. But I do. I remember in elementary school when we read the book Flat Stanley. We were assigned to create our own and send them to family out of state. I didn’t have family out of state so I sent “Flat Amy” to you. I found the assignment again recently. I paged through your hand-written notes that accompanied pictures you arranged. Flat Amy helping Grandpa fill the bird feed. Flat Amy making cookies with you. Flat Amy watching Powerpuff Girls. You turned on that show for the picture because you knew it was my favorite.

And now, seeing the memories, and now, realizing what they meant, and now, as an adult and not a child, I am overwhelmed to tears to see how much a simple act meant so much love.

You are not gone. But also, you are. It’s the theory of the multiverse, like every possible version of the universe, every choice we could have made sits on top of each other. But the single point where the multiverse collides is in a human form and that human form is you. My heart breaks and my heart heals to see you.

I visit you now and your eyes light up. Sometimes, you second-guess my name. Sometimes, you second-guess our relationship. You cycle through the options out loud, “Coworker? Friend? Daughter? Cousin?”

“Granddaughter,” I tell you. The fact that I need to tell you that should burden me with tears, but it doesn’t. I warm, even though you’re not sure. I’m unworried by the fact that it feels like I’m guiding a preschooler to the right word.

Because your eyes still light up to see me. You sit up and pull me into a hug. You don’t always know my name or my relationship to you but you want to touch me, to hold me tight, to offer your love and feel it reflected back in return. You don’t know who I am but you know that I love you and right now, that’s all that matters.

Isn’t it all that ever matters?

You want to get a divorce, you confide in us. Why? Because you want to marry Grandpa. “You want to divorce Grandpa. So you can marry Grandpa.” Unfettered, you say, “Yes.” We try to explain your circular logic, but when Mom turns her back on the conversation, you start mouthing words to me, plotting your plan of divorce and marriage to the same man with your trusted confidant me. And while my head spins as I try to chase the circle you run through, warmth blossoms in my heart. Because I am your confidant in your plot. (Not to mention you love Grandpa with a passion that defies reason, his own passing fifteen years prior nothing more than an inconvenience.)

Stubborn, so stubborn. This is the woman I will remember, the woman who before and after persists. You do things your own way and resist persuasion to any other. But you love, still you love. You face uncertain memories, forgotten names, and still you ask to hug me and kiss me on the cheek. Some days you know my name, but all days you know you love me. And in all days, I know I love you. In that, we are still the same.

And though it is strange to say, I consider myself lucky to get to know this version of you in the midst of dementia. You have been stubborn all the days I have known you but now you are also fearless. You act a six-year-old child when Mom tells you—her mom—to wash your hands, but I coax you in to using hand sanitizer that smells like pumpkins. You tell Mom that you want to find a man and giggle at the thought, like a schoolgirl. I learn who you were before I was born firsthand, not just in stories.

Someday, you will be gone. Just like we all will be. I wonder which version of you I will remember most fervently. But all versions of you are the real one. The stubborn woman who knows what she wants and demands it unapologetically. The woman who loves me no matter who I am or what I choose.

Thank you for letting me get to know every version of you. No matter what version you show me next, I am lucky to know you.