On the last day of January in 2013, I got the news my grandpa went to Heaven. He was 97 years old and dementia began to consume him. In the earlier stages of his dementia I vividly recall a visit with him at the assisted living facility, which had become his new home. I was in Ohio for the weekend so mom and I stopped in to see him. My grandma and her daughter, Connie, were both there visiting as well. When Mom and I arrived, they were with Grandpa in the communal living area watching the Ohio State football game and just spending time with one another.

To my recollection, grandpa was the first family member I’ve had to visit in an assisted living facility. I’m not going to lie, the idea of assisted living facilities always makes me a bit nervous. If I had to be honest as to why, I am pretty certain a large part of it is because I’m insecure. This probably sounds silly, but I never know how to act, or what I might see, or even what to say. It all makes me a bit uncomfortable. Maybe it sounds selfish to feel those things, but the other part of me just wanted for everything to be back the way it always was when I would visit grandpa at his house when he was still sharp as a tack.

There Grandpa sat in his wheelchair, quiet, but wide awake. He wasn’t very lucid and didn’t (maybe couldn’t) say anything – I don’t think he was speaking anymore by that time. Grandma and Connie seemed quite comfortable and were carrying on as if they were in Grandma and Grandpa’s living room watching TV. Mom and I settled in and she chatted with them a bit. I jumped in on the conversation every now and then, but I was fixated on Grandpa.

After a bit he began to shift in his wheelchair some and was making noises – a little bit of a struggle, but I wasn’t sure what he wanted or needed. My family has never really been very affectionate, but something told me to go sit by him. So I timidly walked over and sat next to him, and when I sat down I just wanted to hold his hand, so I did. Perhaps it was my way of hanging on to him. Knowing his health was deteriorating and the fact that he was in his upper 90s meant one way or another we didn’t have many years (possibly months) left with him. Me living far away meant I had even fewer moments left with him. So I hung on to his hand and we sat and watched football together. I felt loved, and I think he felt it too because he sat still, no struggle, no noises, no motions. Just peace and calm – for him and for me.

The nurse came in and took care of some things for him. I assumed they were daily medications or something of that nature because it seemed routine – like clockwork. While she took his blood pressure and got him everything he needed I let go of his hand and gave her the space to do what she needed to do. When she was finished she lingered for a bit as he started to shift and make that little struggle once again. She looked at me with a smile and said, I think he wants you to hold his hand.

A moment in time, frozen in my memory for so many reasons. Of course it was an incredibly special moment with my grandpa in the final years of his life, but it was also special because although his mind and his memory were no longer completely present in the way they had once been, his understanding and desire for love was still very much present – he still knew what it meant to love and be loved.

Love is like that. Love knows how to communicate even when we can’t. In fact, love can do a lot of talking without using any words at all. The expression of love between my grandpa and I that day wasn’t spoken, but it was very much felt by the simple touch of a hand.

Love is in the small things. Love is the everyday motions and attention we give to one another. Love is in the moments we choose to slow down and sit side by side, hand in hand. Love speaks volumes, even without any words.