Walking into the Brighton Gardens Assisted Living that briskly cold December morning, I knew. I knew that I was walking into my last goodbye to you, my final few moments with your contagious smile and genuinely warm spirit.

Given the severity of your Alzheimer’s, I could not believe the light in your eyes when my dad told you that Mollie by Golly was here to see you. The smile that very slowly spread when my dad said that name sent radiating chills running throughout my body, and I could not stop smiling after seeing that light in you. Even as I sit on the plane on our way out to Omaha to celebrate your life, I cannot help but smile thinking about that moment.

On that last night before we flew home, I sat with you, with soft classical music humming throughout your room. Your eyes were closed during my few moments with you; although I was fairly sure that you could not hear what I was saying, I sat and talked with you anyway.

I told you that I could not have imagined a stronger, more incredible woman to have led our family for as long as you did. I told you that I would miss your singing lessons, even though I was probably the most hopeless of all of your grandchildren in regards to music. I told you that I would miss your laugh, your laugh that somehow always sounded as though you were singing. I told you that I could not have asked for a better Grandma Handkins.

And then, as I was pulling away from what I gravely had to assume was my last hug with you, you opened your eyes for a brief moment and gave the smallest smile.

And then I left. I looked at you one last time through blurred eyes and said goodbye.

As final as this felt, a small, naïve part of me still hoped that I would be seeing you again. But then, as I was driving home from a weekend lake trip with my friends, I got the call.

You were gone.

Even as I sit on this plane, I still cannot fully believe that we will never again see you at our family reunions. But even with that stomach-twisting thought running through my head, I cannot help but smile.

I cannot help but smile, because you can sing again. After all of these many years, you can see your parents and your siblings again. You can move and you can speak and you can laugh again.

So as hard as the goodbye has been, we can still smile. We can still smile because we know that you are better, that you are without pain or struggle.

We can smile because you can sing again.

You can sing again.