My Gram had a wonderful day yesterday at my mom's house for Thanksgiving. She didn't remember one of our names, didn't know whose kids where whose, who was dating/engaged/married to whom, or the last time we were all together. She asked us a million questions, most repeats from just moments before. What my Gram does know at this point is love. We haven't laughed so hard and been so at ease in a long time. The whole family was focused on her glow, her laugh, and her smile. This woman raised all of us. She let us ride mattresses down the stairs, ski on the little hill in her backyard, watch movies at late night sleepovers. She taught all 9 grandkids how to swim by holding us up by our underwear in the pool. She taught us how to be creative, make Christmas cookies, and help those less fortunate than us. It's so unbelievably hard to let it sink in that she doesn't remember our names or our significant others or children. But for her sake it's all OK. We shake it off. I tell her that it's just alright and that she's living in the moment and that's how it's supposed to be. As long as she's happy the memory doesn't need to be here.

There's one name she did remember, though. She didn't call him Daddy, she didn't call him Grandpa, or Great Grandpa. She called him by his name: Charlie. Her Charlie. We miss what my Gram used to be and we miss her Charlie like hell. But yesterday was a wonderful day for us. We had her laugh and through that laugh and the way she said his name, we had Grampy there too.