Hands. That’s what I remember of my grandma. Her hands. How dainty and soft they were. How perfectly shaped and painted her nails always were. And how cool they were no matter the season. The way they would grip my hand as though it was the only thing holding her to the Earth. She would look at me and for a fleeting moment I would believe she knew me. That she remembered the long walks we would take around the neighborhood. How she would get on her hands and knees to help me hunt for frogs. The way she would pick strawberries off her bush and slice them with a paring knife for a snack. How many dozens of peanut butter cookies she would make because she forgot she had already made two batches that day. The delicate way in which she would prune her copious number of plants. Every morning was a new beginning, and every evening a new task.

When my grandma was in high school, she began scooping ice cream at a local parlor. The work turned her hands blue, but she saw it as a testament to her hard work. After graduation, she opened a beauty salon. She would work long hours to sculpt ladies’ hair into intricate designs and colors. When her children were young, she operated a video store with my grandpa. Her hands stacked video tapes, handled money, and kept her store clean and welcoming. Later in life, my grandma began working at the makeup counter at Macy’s. Her hands were perfect for softly and precisely applying foundation and lipstick. When I was five, my grandpa died. My grandma had already been diagnosed with dementia, and her health took a nosedive soon after. I remember watching her struggle to keep up with the care of her house and even herself. Soon it was time for her to move into assisted living. This opened up a world full of opportunities for her and her busy hands. My grandma was able to paint, play games, and garden. She was happy.

As loved ones of people with dementia know, moments like these can be short-lived. After only a few years, she declined even more. Before too long we had to make the hard decision to move her into memory care. Even with all of this, she was still very much my grandma. Every day she would ask how school was going, sometimes many times, and remind my dad of when he took away her car keys. When she was annoyed, she would yell at him, “I changed your diapers,” another reminder of something loving her hands had done. Every day she seemed to slip further away from the grandmother I had known and loved. Before too long, she was confined to a wheelchair and nonverbal. Even with all of these changes, she was still very much my grandma. She clapped along with music, loved going outside to see, smell, and touch the flowers, and especially wanted someone to hold her hand. Despite not knowing who we were, she would still light up when we entered a room because we were her people and she knew that she loved us.

When Grandma died I mourned not only her but missed opportunities. The concerts, graduations, weddings, and baptisms she would never get to see. I felt robbed of having a grandma and getting to know her. Looking back, I’ve realized that I did know her. All of the little moments we had later in her life were her, even if she wasn’t. The way she’d devour a whole slice of rhubarb cake, clap along with music, and say my grandfather’s name when she would get frustrated. It showed me that she still was undeniably her, even when it didn’t seem like it. I had a lot taken from me, but I still wouldn’t change the memories I made with her in any way.

My grandma made me who I am today and I hope that one day I am able to look back on what my hands did with the same pride I feel in remembering hers.