Finding the red flowers.

My grandmother died in January. I made it about 19 years without losing someone I was very close to, although I was 22 when she actually died. Alzheimer’s had taken her long before then.

For years, every time I visited her in the nursing home, I would make myself say goodbye as if were for the last time. There were a lot of goodbyes. I find it almost funny that “goodbye” was not the last thing I said to her; on the last day, I made myself end on “I love you.” I never had to make a conscious decision about what my last words to someone would be, but somehow “goodbye” just didn’t feel right.

My grandmother, Nina, probably couldn’t understand me when I said it. She had long forgotten who I was, how to carry on a conversation, how look me in the eye. But, I figured, it was worth a shot to tell her I loved her one more time.

Death changes people. I feel fortunate to have almost made it through college without having to look at life with that huge, gaping hole in it. Not that the hole suddenly appeared — it had slowly burned and smoldered over time, from the first time Nina forgot the poppyseeds on the poppyseed chicken casserole and the first few times she called me the wrong name. That hole burned a long time, and death only brought its permanence.

Even so, I learned a thing or two from it.

When I would visit her, Nina would always be walking. She didn’t like to sit still; she had to keep busy. Occasionally, if the weather was nice, we would walk in the nursing home’s small enclosed courtyard. Around the circular sidewalk we’d go, holding hands and looking at the flowers. “Nina, look at the azaleas,” I’d said, pointing to the flowers she loved to grow. “Look at the daylilies. Aren’t they pretty?” Sometimes she’d hum her approval. Any time we passed a red flower, I made sure to try to get her to look at it, because red was her favorite, and she never forgot that.

Alzheimer’s robbed Nina of most every memory she had, except for three: Her favorite color was red, towels and linens had to be folded and tucked a certain way, and that she really liked bananas. These always brought a smile to my face. There was a fourth characteristic that Alzheimer’s could not steal, though, something I believe was impossible for her to forget: how to love. Sometimes a little prompting was needed, but she loved to give hugs, and sometimes a little sugar, too. The last time I remember her making eye contact with someone was to look straight into my grandfather’s eyes and tell him, “I love you.”

Maybe that’s why wanted to end on that.

I believe that even through heartbreak and suffering, I can find comfort in familiar things. What brought my grandmother joy now brings me joy in my own life, and I am inspired to remember the things she could not forget. I believe in red flowers.