July 3, 2026
Mom always looked forward to any holiday because it meant gathering around a fire to make s’mores. Truthfully, she was happiest eating the marshmallows while generously sharing the chocolate with her grandchildren. Her taste buds have changed over the years, but her love for sugar certainly hasn’t.
Dad came home with donuts, knowing Mom still delights in anything covered with frosting. He bakes often and thoughtfully creates an extra drizzle of icing on whatever comes out of the oven. Mom carefully nibbles only the frosted parts these days – whether it be of a doughnut, muffin, scone, slice of pie, or piece of cake, leaving the rest behind. She offers the remainder to Dad as her way of sharing.
Dad always accepts her offering with a smile and quietly finishes whatever is left.
Watching this has reminded me that he’s been doing this his entire life.
When we were growing up, Dad always made sure the best pieces of chicken went to everyone else first. While we enjoyed the breasts, thighs, and drumsticks, he happily ate the neck, the back, the liver, and the heart. We thought he genuinely preferred those pieces. Only later did I realize it wasn’t about preference at all. It was simply his way of making sure the people he loved received the best. With sincere gratitude, he was content with the crumbs, the leftovers, or the parts no one else wanted.
Some things about love never change.
This Fourth of July, Dad baked a beautiful strawberry cake topped with fresh strawberries, homemade whipped cream, and a sugary glaze that melted on your tongue. We were certain Mom would enjoy it. She slowly nibbled at her slice but gently pushed the strawberries aside. Maybe they were too difficult to chew. Even so, she ate more than we expected, and Dad happily inherited the extra strawberries to pile onto his own piece of cake. It was a win-win for him.
Around 7:30 that evening, Mom was led outside with the grandchildren to watch a small fireworks display that Daniel and Michelle had brought over. It was such a thoughtful, tangible gift—giving her something to experience rather than expecting her to remember why July 4th is celebrated.
The days blend together now in Mom’s world. She no longer knows the day of the week, the date, or even the season. Time has become something different for her.
She settled into a chair beside Dad while a few bottle rockets and firecrackers filled the driveway with smoke and bursts of color. I worried the loud noises might frighten her the way they do Dixie, who would much rather hide safely in a closet. Instead, Mom surprised me. She trusted what her son and his family had prepared for her, relaxed into her chair, and simply enjoyed the moment.
She stayed outside for nearly an hour, watching the children run through the yard, listening to their laughter, and smiling as fireworks lit the evening sky.
That was our Fourth of July.
Not the grand celebrations of years past, when we would travel to Arlington, Virginia, to visit our grandmother and watch the fireworks illuminate the Washington Monument, but something quieter and, in many ways, richer.
An evening spent together. Children laughing. Fireworks sparkling overhead. Hugs exchanged before everyone went home. Gentle affection that needed no explanation.
Mom no longer remembers names, but she knows voices. More importantly, she knows love. When a familiar hand reaches for hers, her heart recognizes what her mind no longer can. She leans into gentle touch, into familiar laughter, into the quiet safety of being surrounded by the people who love her.
Perhaps that’s what celebrations become in the presence of dementia.
Less about remembering why we celebrate the holiday, and more about remembering what it feels like to be loved.
We ended the holiday weekend with a drive together listening to Air on a G String by Johann Sebastian Bach, and getting matching pedicures. Mom chose the polish herself. She didn’t know the name of the color, but her finger found it anyway—a cheerful shade of pink. She simply pointed, letting her heart make the choice when words could no longer. As the day came to a close, it’s the unconditional attachment of Dixie and Kee-Kee that she draws in—their faithful presence and always a comforting shadow beside her.
