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.

In most nursing homes, death is not acknowledged. There is no announcement, no shared moment, no ritual of remembrance. One day a chair is occupied; the next day it is empty. Residents notice. They count how many friends have sat there before. They wait through breakfast, then lunch, then ask the front desk. Silence does not spare them grief—it leaves them to carry it alone, doing the math in their own heads and wondering, quietly, if anyone will notice when they are gone.