I remember the skies that morning.

Blue. Clear. Picturesque. Unencumbered, with sunshine and promise.

I remember finding it a strange juxtapose compared to what waited for me.

My sweet Mimi ready to meet Jesus after a year of slipping further and further into the unkind ravages of dementia.

But just as I found my heart aching as I pulled into the parking lot, I also marveled a bit at the blessing memory care had become. For months, I’d found a tearstained joy here.

No matter how much her dementia progressed, there had always been an unequivocal delight at my arrival. A squeal. A smile. A clap of her hands.

Sometimes held only in her eyes, she always knew I was someone she loved.

That memory wrapped around my heart even as I made my way past security, down the hall, and around the corner to what would be our last hello.

Pushing open her door, I could barely make out her tiny body underneath her comforter. Once I found myself beside her bed, she grabbed my hand tightly as if to say, “Don’t go.” But this time her eyes held something new. This time her eyes were filled with fear and confusion and pain.

So I did the one thing I knew would bring her comfort and break through her unsettling, I dusted off the CDs stacked near her bedside table, found the one I thought she’d like most, and slipped into the bed beside her, holding her hand as peals of “Amazing Grace” filled the room...

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