When I was seven, visiting my grandfather was woven into my weeks like a quiet ceremony. I didn’t know why it felt important — it simply did. I would walk beside him from the corner shop to his small house at the end of the block, my hand wrapped confidently around his, as though I were the one guiding him safely home.
Inside, everything followed the same gentle rhythm. He would sit across from me, hold my hands in his, and study my face with careful attention before pouring two glasses of grape juice. He rarely spoke much, yet the way he looked at me made the room feel steady and safe. To me, it was just our ritual — a calm pause in an ordinary childhood.
As I grew older, life sped up. School, friends, responsibilities — the visits became less frequent. When I did see him, he seemed quieter, more distant. I assumed it was simply age.
After he passed, regret settled in. I wished I had shown up more.
Years later, my mother told me the truth. He had already been losing his memory back then. The reason he held my hands and searched my face was because he was trying to remember me — anchoring me in his fading mind. The grape juice wasn’t random either; it helped him take his medication. By sharing it with me, he turned something clinical into something loving.
What I thought was routine had been devotion.
He wasn’t just welcoming me. He was memorizing me while he still could.
