Several years ago, my in-laws moved from the family farm they built and lived on for decades, to a small, nondescript neighborhood in the Midwest.

It was emotionally rough on the whole family, but it was necessary. Little did anyone know at the time how necessary it would be.

Over the past few years, Mom had some memory loss issues. It started slow, but escalated quickly over the last two years. Accompanied by two bone breaking falls, a difficult decision had to be made. To keep Mom from hurting herself as she recovered from a broken hip, she was admitted into a nursing home.

She’s as strong as a horse, and still has the stubborn will that served her well as a registered nurse. Unfortunately, she doesn’t understand where she is now, or why she can’t get up out of bed and go home.

We are up visiting from a state south of here- at least we are trying to visit her. My stalwart spouse, who has only been sick once in the nearly 12 years I’ve know him, has been sick almost since he stepped off the plane five days ago. It’s impossible and irresponsible for him to think about a visit in his condition, as much as it breaks his heart not to.

Instead, we stay with Dad and visit with the sisters, who visit Mom daily, in turn, to love on her and see she’s well cared for in the home down the road.

Mom, though, is everywhere here.

She’s in the chair I’m sitting in – it was her chair, a deep blue with no recliner. She wasn’t much for sitting around. This is the chair she sat in for a few minutes, a dog in her lap. She’s in the chair, and her dog – who misses her tangibly – is in my lap.

She’s in this house, newer to them though it may be. The decor was carefully placed by her hands, and the framed pictures of family are scattered everywhere, so they were always in her line of sight.

Remnants of her life are present throughout every room. Porcelain dolls, paintings of cardinals, churches, and figurines of German Shepherds are tucked everywhere. The beds are warmed by homemade quilts, and the end tables are daintily set with lace doilies.

Our conversations are filled with her. Dad will be mid-sentence when he will suddenly verbalize a memory as it passes through his mind’s eye. We gathered for a family meal, and talk went to all of our favorite dishes she made, culminating with a flip through a hand written recipe book to collect our favorite recipes to take home.

Mom is not here in this house right now, and she wasn’t in the car today as we drove through the windy countryside.

Her presence echoes through all of it. Always.

Dementia has taken her physical mind, but her love keeps her family loving her and laughing and remembering her as the mom, grandma, sister, and daughter she was – and the wonderful person she is.