I journeyed out to Manassas to spend the day with my grandfather, walking in his world. My step-mother, his daughter, was on vacation, and I did not want him to feel alone.

We first went to see his wife, who is living in a nursing care facility. She has Alzheimer's disease. He slipped his hand in mine on the elevator and asked if I were going to be okay being on the ward. I squeezed it and assured him that I was fine. But it was a sobering moment.

My grandmother's room is just off the elevator, and while I didn't know what to expect since I hadn't seen her in a long while, I was not prepared to see her sleeping in a chair. A chair that was a combination of wheelchair and cage.

My grandfather rather delightedly exclaimed, "There's my bride!"

He kissed her gently on the forehead to wake her, and we wheeled her down to the sunroom to visit. As we did so, one patient after another, sitting in the hallway, reached out to touch me. I stopped and shook hands with many of them, trying not to cry.

She was excited to visit, but most of her conversation was set in the past and hard to understand. When she laughed, we laughed. When she fretted, we soothed her. He fetched her some juice, which she drank, but soon there after spit up a bit on the floor. Tears pooled in his eyes, and he became the one who fretted. My grandfather then combed her hair and straightened her closing, touching her with loving hands. Watching him made tears pool in my eyes.

All through her conversation, I asked him about there life together. We had a double conversation of sorts. When I asked how they met, he replied that it was a double date, but with a ghost of a smile on his face. When I asked if my grandmother was his date, he replied, "Nope. But when I saw her get in the back seat, I tossed my friend the car keys and crawled right in after her." He stroked kissed her again in remembrance.

A therapist came in and played a game of beanbag toss with many of the other patients in the sunroom, but my grandmother was unable to participate. When she began to fall back asleep in her chair, my grandfather grabbed my hand and pulled me out of there.

There were no words that were adequate for the moment, so we drove to dinner in silence.

After dinner and some errands, we sat in his living room going through every photo in his possession. Narrating them was difficult for him because he has lost most of his sight in his left eye. He lost his right eye over sixty years ago. Magnifying glass in hand, he told me of this journey and that. Of this day and that. Of this person and that. I learned more of him today than I have known my whole life.

I have missed too much.

Sorting through the photos, I found a love letter, on US Army stationary, from him to his wife. What a privilege it was too read of such love. To witness it at the nursing home. To know that for sixty-one years he has honored that love, in sickness and in health, in good times and bad. I was humbled.

Before I left, he made me red beans and rice with sausage to take home. I watched him struggle to read the measuring cup and wanted to help him cook, but I remained with the photos, occasionally asking questions, trying not to stare. He packaged up my meals with such care as to safely make the journey back to my home. Four meals he gave me to eat, but I tasted a fifth.

I tasted love today.