As a seven-year-old, I visited my grandfather weekly. I felt proud walking him home from the corner store, guiding him to his small house. Inside, he’d gently hold my hands, study my face as if memorizing every detail, then smile and pour us both grape juice. To me, it was our special, quiet ritual—his attention made me feel cherished and safe.
As I grew older, school, friends, and later work took over. Visits became rare. He grew quieter, which I chalked up to old age. When he passed away, regret hit hard for the time I hadn’t given him.
Years later, talking with my mother about family history, the pieces fell into place. She revealed that during those visits, he was already battling memory loss. Some days he forgot what he’d eaten or where his keys were—but he always remembered I was coming.
Holding my hands and gazing at my face was his way of anchoring my image in his mind, fighting to keep me from slipping away. The grape juice? Doctors had prescribed it with his medication; sharing it with me turned a chore into a joyful moment.
The realization hit differently than mere nostalgia. What I’d seen as a sweet habit was his quiet, determined effort to hold onto love while he still could. He was memorizing me before the fog took more.
Now, when I think of him, I see that soft smile and feel his gentle grip—like a long, tender goodbye. It taught me that love often speaks in small, unnoticed routines, fully understood only after we’ve grown up.
