When trying to cope with the immense loss I felt in my heart, I wrote. I wrote down everything and anything. With tears in my eyes, I wrote about moments. All I had left of my grandma were moments, moments sparkling with the subtle beauty that life had to proudly offer, imperfections and all. My grandma showed me what beauty was, how it could be crayon masterpieces, clumsy origami, or pottery mutants. It could be youtiao—fried dough sticks that wielded like baguettes—or sheng jian bao—doughy dumplings that stuck to our teeth, making us giggle through pursed lips. It could also be people, the little girl that picked up my grandma’s scarf when she dropped it, or our not-so-grumpy-after-all grumpy neighbor who brought mushroom soup when my grandma was sick.

My grandma had dementia, and I was so caught up in what I was losing. Every time she recognized me, I wondered if it would be the last time. I asked her if she felt fear about inevitably forgetting herself. She told me that she didn’t feel fear, but peace instead. In her mind, having dementia made her appreciate the present more because she never knew when she would forget it all. If she could love life even in her state, couldn’t I?