Come back and see me

I waited for my grandmother’s red Mini Cooper to turn onto my street, the familiar flash of color signaling the start of a special day.

The second it pulled up, I was out the door, sliding into the passenger seat as she fed a CD into the stereo.

We sang with the windows down, her red hair whipping in the wind as she reapplied lipstick at red lights. It felt effortless, like she existed in her own world and I was merely a guest. 

We stopped at Forty Carrots Cafe inside the local Bloomingdales for tart yogurt before heading back to her house. 

Her bathroom was overwhelming in the best way. 

Makeup covered every inch of the vanity: bronzer, worn-down lip liners, hair tools and brushes dusted with color. I would sit there for hours transforming my face. Sometimes, if I lingered long enough, she’d let me take a few things home. 

Her closet told the same story: purses stacked on shelves, dresses packed tightly together, fur coats and vintage jewelry.

She had a way of putting outfits together that shouldn’t have worked, but on her, they always did. 

It wasn’t just her style. It was her confidence. 

She went out dancing, drew attention without trying and moved through the world with an aura that made life seem simple. 

In 2020, everything began to shift. 

During COVID, my grandmother was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. I couldn’t see her much during that time, but my father would take her on walks and help her with tasks around her house. 

At first, her condition was subtle: words out of order, misplaced items and small lapses that felt easy to brush off. 

But those moments started to stack, and slowly, the version of her I knew became harder to hold onto. I called and texted when I could, keeping brief, familiar moments close.

Eventually, she sold her house and moved into an assisted living facility in Florida, closer to family. Around that same time, her Mini Cooper became mine. 

It felt like more than just a car, it was something I could keep to remember her when everything felt uncertain. 

One afternoon, I opened the middle console and found a CD labeled “Come Back and See Me.” Although it was just a song title, it felt like a message from her given the circumstances. 

I carried that with me while everything else began to change. I was finishing high school and torn between moving forward and trying to hold onto something that was slipping away. 

Now, at Lehigh, my life looks different.  

I’ve formed new connections, studied abroad and built new routines in a new place. 

Before I left for my semester in Italy, my dad said something simple: “Take it all in. Every little moment.”

In Florence, I would walk the streets alone and just let myself exist. I’d sit in the park, fill journals, make scrapbooks and take photos. Even when I was with friends, I’d pause for a second to realize how special that moment really was.

At Lehigh, especially during senior year, everything feels like it’s speeding up. Plans stack on top of each other, weekends blur together and it’s easy to think that every moment has to be the best one yet. I found myself rushing at first, trying to make sure I didn’t miss anything before it was over.

But now, I’ve started to slow down. 

As graduation gets closer, I’ve been more intentional about how I spend my time. 

I cherish moments with my friends: sitting longer at dinner, walking back from class together, staying in some nights and watching a movie. I’ve come to love doing my hair and makeup, wearing my grandmother’s jewelry and embracing the parts of myself I know she would be proud of.

I visited her once while she was in assisted living, and for a second, I felt like a stranger. 

Since then, I’ve FaceTimed her when my dad visits, but her condition has gotten much worse. 

But I still remind her of her car, the music, the yogurt and the afternoons spent in her house. Even if she can’t respond, I believe something will still stick with her.

It’s easy to move through life without really being in it.

But if there’s anything I’ve learned from my grandmother, it’s this: one doesn’t always get to hold onto moments, and sometimes not even the memories.

So now, I try to hold onto both while I still can.