“You’re in junior high school now, is that right?”

My mother and grandmother, along with my younger sister, just left the room, and this statement had broken the silence.

I hadn’t asked this question; it was my great-grandmother, Rose.

We all thought her logic and intellect had left her some time ago. I was so shocked that I just sat there speechless and dumbfounded until I realized that I should probably give her an answer.

I answered with a polite, “Yes,” and the conversation took off from there.

She asked me all sorts of questions I didn’t think anyone with dementia would be capable of. She asked me what school I went to, how my teachers were, what I was learning, as well as my after school and weekend activities.

I answered hesitantly at first, thinking she wouldn’t be able to hear me anyway, but she seemed to comprehend everything I said. After a while, I grew comfortable talking with her and answered her questions with great detail.

“When I was around your age, my friends and I would go out with boys. Do you have a boyfriend?” Grandma Rose asked.

This shocked me even more than her previous questions.

“No, I don’t. But one of my friends does.”

Once I answered, she began talking about her childhood. She spoke of how she and her friends viewed school while growing up. She shared about what school was like for her and even commented on how she liked to jump rope.

We were still in the midst of our conversation when my mother, grandmother and sister came back into the room. It was as if a switch had been turned, shutting off whatever access Grandma Rose had to her memories. It would be the first and last meaningful conversation we had.

About a year later, I decided to write about this conversation with Grandma Rose for a personal narrative essay assignment in my 8th grade humanities class. I submitted my first draft right before I left with my parents and sister to visit Hawaii in early December.

Just days into our trip, my grandmother called with the news that Grandma Rose had died peacefully. She was 97 years old.

The day after we returned from Hawaii, I read the draft of my essay at Grandma Rose’s funeral. I was honored to provide comfort as we mourned her life together.