My Grandma Doesn't Remember Me

My grandma doesn't remember me. She remembers Tara. She just doesn't remember me. To her, Tara is a little girl with long, blonde hair, wearing Smurfette tennis shoes. She still lives in Michigan, goes to elementary school and watches old movies on grandma's couch. She still rides a child's bike around the neighborhood, plays with kids across the street and sneaks into granny's jewelry box. My grandma forgot that I grew up, because my grandma has alzheimer's disease. She forgot that not only did I finish high school, but that she attended my college graduation as well. She forgot that four years ago we all celebrated my sister's wedding, and that two months ago, my brother and sister-in-law finally had a baby. She forgot that her mom died long before I was born, and when she remembers, it's like she's reliving that grief for the very first time. My grandma is here, but she's gone. She sits at the table but I'm not sure where she is. My grandma doesn't remember me anymore, but sadder still, is that she doesn't remember her.

If I had the choice of remembering me, or remembering grandma, she'd win every time. Her kindness, her generosity, her most gentle, tender and compassionate love. It's a tragedy that she no longer experiences the understanding of the great woman that she is - or maybe the not knowing makes her all the more beautiful. Unknowingly, without motive or intention, she is, simply, kind. She may not remember people or events or places, but she remembers compassion. She remembers laughter. Somehow, forgetting all else, she still remembers to be like Jesus.

I struggled with what to get grandma for Mother's Day this year. It's the first year I'm absolutely certain she won't even know who I am, what I gave her, or why I gave it. Worse yet, giving her anything at all will still be as if I gave nothing, and I'm left with a sorrowful, "So what's the point?" No matter what I give, she won't be able to know or appreciate it. Mother's Day will come and go, and she won't even know the difference.

She may not remember me, but I remember her. She has forgotten years-worth of memories, but in my mind they are as fresh as this morning. She is my grandma. She held me, and brushed my hair, and scratched my back. I love old movies because I watched them with her - over and over and over again. The smell of soap and Jean-Natte are still alive in my mind, blended with images of pink towels, lace doilies and purple butterflies. Precious moments, soccer games, walking the dog, crying with me after Grandpa Gentry died, handwashing dishes, endless nick-nacks, ice cream and backyard flowers, calling me her "angel" and asking me to sing when I was too afraid to try... I still remember.

I think grandma is giving me the most costly gift I've ever received. The cost has been losing her. The gift, learning to love without return. Without recognition, or appreciation, or invitation - to simply, love. To love her, not because it will feel good - the more I love her, the more it hurts. But the more I love her, the more I become the woman she always prayed I would be. Her greatest gift is finding she has left her mark on me.

So this Mother's Day, what do I give? If I get chocolates, she won't eat them. If I get jewelry, she won't wear it. If I get clothes, she'll think they belong to someone else. This Mother's Day, I gave her flowers. Ashamed to admit it, I wondered to myself, "Is it really worth the money? She won't even know they're hers." But grandma smiles over pretty things, and flowers are pretty. If for one moment tomorrow, grandma smiles over a pretty flower, a pretty flower that I gave her, even though she doesn't know it - then I guess for Mother's Day, I bought my grandma a smile. And when grandma can't remember anymore, I think a smile is money well-spent.

Happy Mother's Day, Grandma. You may not remember me, but I remember you.   You are still beautiful to me.