Bittersweet Sunday

Bittersweet Sunday

by Edil Rentas Casiano

We knocked on the door after a drive of about two hours from Ponce. We looked forward to this visit with eagerness, though with some apprehension. We were going to see Ana, a dear friend of more than thirty-five years, who at sixty-five years of age has been living with Alzheimer’s for the last eight. Her daughter opened the door, eyes bright with joy as my wife and I stepped inside. We embraced in tight greetings, with the warmth that is so typically Puerto Rican, followed by an undercurrent of sadness.

Inside, there she was — Ana, seated in a wheelchair. The same face, a little more aged. The same smile — as if she had never left. The woman with whom we used to share so many conversations, who taught our children to swim, who loved my wife and us as if we were family. But the eyes… missing the spark that made Ana, Ana.

We greeted her, embraced her, but she remained still, smiling, without reaction, without affection. My wife said — I’m Lucy — followed by my name. No response, no change in the smile. We tried to stir up old memories: the Coast Guard days, the late-night prayer calls my wife used to make to her, searching for something that might light a spark. Nothing. Not a blink. Just that smile — warm, gentle, automatic, but empty of any recognition or emotion.

Even so, I could hear her voice and her laughter in my mind, calling us by name. My memories of those times were still there, within instant reach. But hers — hers have lost their way back.

We spent a couple of hours talking with her daughter. We reminisced about the time we shared in Miami, Aguadilla, Ramey, and her daughter’s wedding at the Old Ramey Lighthouse. Ana just watched, smiled, and moved her lips mostly without sound.

Her daughter shared how difficult it has been to understand and accept her mother’s condition. She even felt anger at first. She asked herself why. Why did this happen? Why my mother?

My wife prayed for Ana. She presented the Lord’s Supper to her, and Ana — out of nowhere — said: “Yo sé.” I know. Just that. Clear. As if she had grasped the moment, its meaning, its significance. As if the faith she had carried since forever had punched straight through the fog. We were left speechless. For one second, she was back. Then she slipped away again.

We said our goodbyes, embraced, and told them how much we loved them. Though she gave no sign of recognizing us, she took Lucy’s hands, pulled them firmly toward her, and murmured something about us leaving. She held Lucy’s hands very tight, as if she understood that moment and did not want it to end. We hugged her. Kissed her forehead. Told her “we love you.” She kept the same vacant smile. No words. We walked out without looking back. There are moments in life better remembered just as you left them — without looking back.

The drive home was quiet. I kept thinking — how do you lose someone who is still breathing? How do you grieve a friend who is right there, but isn’t? Her body was smiling. Her soul was not. And that is what broke me: the shell remained, but the woman we knew — the one who used to light up when we were together — had been fading away. She has not left physically, but her memory has. And every time I close my eyes, I see that smile. Still perfect. Still hers. But empty of feeling.

I don’t know what happens inside. Memories don’t vanish; they just lose their map. She can no longer find them. She cannot find the past. She cannot find herself. But somewhere — perhaps in the rhythm of prayer, perhaps in the taste of the bread and wine — there is still a spark. “Yo sé.” She recognized the significance of that moment. Her connection with her Lord.

We carry her memories now. All the stories. All the laughter. All the conversations we shared. My wife carries them too. Her daughter and sons do as well. Even her husband — whose demanding military life had hardened his feelings — has been softened by the whole experience. He is a different person now: gentler, more loving, more tender.

We left with a new understanding of what this condition means for the thousands of families who have lost their loved ones while they are still physically present. Our hearts go out to them.

As for her memories, we will keep telling them. Not because Ana hears them. But because we do. Because she matters. Because even if hers can no longer find their way out, we can still bring them to light.

And so, while she smiled without ceasing, we held back our tears. And somewhere, perhaps — just perhaps — she understood.

And in that moment, that was all we had. The bittersweet feeling of the joy of being able to see her, mixed with the sadness of knowing she was not really there. But that, that, was enough.