Every now and then, she rose to the surface and said, “I love you” or “You’re so pretty,” which are moments I’ll treasure forever. But as the years of dementia took their toll, those gems grew fewer and farther between.

My mom’s love of sweets became our connection these last few years.

Each time I visited, I brought her smoothies, pound cake, her all-time favorite cream-filled eclairs with chocolate on the top, or something else she could gum down because she gave up wearing dentures several years ago.

She weighed fifty-five or sixty pounds at the end, so I never knew where those calories went.

I rubbed my mom’s head full of shocking-white hair and told her about our trip and all the beautiful flowers we saw. My mom always had a green thumb, and her yard could have been featured in Homes and Gardens magazine. I never knew if she understood my words, but I always talked to her like she did.

I kissed her on the forehead, told her I loved her, and I’d see her next week.

Two days later, I received the call that my mom had just stopped breathing.

I think she waited for me, for that one last visit, for a final sweet treat.

Rest in peace, Mama.