My sister has forgotten much of her life. But she kept the notes I gave her as a child. Now, as her words fade, we read them together—and something remains.

When my brother calls, his aphasia makes speaking hard—but we still talk. Naming dementia, laughing together, and saying the hard things keeps us connected while we still can.

When my brother’s Alzheimer’s took away our ability to talk and connect, I lost access to him—not because of distance or choice, but because of disease. It is a different kind of grief.