My younger brother just turned 60 and has been living with Alzheimer’s for several years. Before the disease, he was a successful, award-winning chef.

Six weeks before my father died of Alzheimer’s, I held him while a nurse moved his mattress to the floor so he wouldn’t be hurt when he fell. He was seventy-two and suddenly weightless in my arms, the man who once held me now being held by me. I knew even then that those few seconds would stay with me forever—a quiet reversal of time, love, and care that does not fade.

I ran into the living room, thinking something had gone terribly wrong, and found her frantically pushing buttons on her phone while a rap song blared. I turned off the music and asked what she’d asked her phone to do.