For the foghorn when there is no fog by Sarah Hannah

Like so many other people with loved ones in assisted living facilities, I will go visit my mom in memory care today and stand outside her window. I wish we could be together in person. I wish her cognition weren't failing, but she still recognizes me when I visit and her spirits are usually good. And when my daughter comes along with me, my mother is lit from within. Nothing makes her happier than seeing her granddaughter, growing taller by the day and standing there on the lawn outside her window. My mother doesn't say much on those visits, but she doesn't need to. It's enough that we're together.

Dementia is a thief. It steals our memories one after the next. It threatens to snuff the light inside that makes us each who we are. But when I see my mother smiling from her chair, I know -- for now at least -- she's still there. Her memories may be fading, but she's still my mom who loves me and my daughter and the memory of my father. Who wants me to button up my coat against the chill. And of all the things she taught me, her struggle with this disease has taught me perhaps the most important -- gratitude.

If you have a loved one struggling with this terrible disease, I wish strength and peace for you and I hope you find some measure of comfort in the memories of your loved one from when they were well.

This remarkable poem by Sarah Hannah has given me great comfort over the years. She was a fierce and lovely poet whose work captures the beauty and pain of living in a way few do.