As a child, I visited my grandfather every week. He would hold my hands, look closely at my face, and share a glass of grape juice with me. I thought it was simply our special tradition.
Years after he passed away, my mother revealed he had been battling memory loss. He studied my face because he was trying to remember me, and the grape juice was part of his treatment. What seemed like an ordinary routine was actually his quiet way of holding on to the people he loved.