I push open the door, and I’m instantly smacked with the smell of Lysol and antibacterial soap. Screams fill my ears, coming from one of the rooms located on the right side of the nursing home. “Ohhhhhh, where is my daughter? Where is my Jasmine?” the voice cries. The wails fluctuate, creating a sound that is near deafening. A hand slaps my leg. “Can you get her to stop screaming? Her daughter already visited today,” Marnie snaps. “She has Alzheimer’s,” one of the women retorts. “Try to be sensitive.” I stare at the grouping of women, not knowing how to respond. I am only a volunteer. There is little I can do.

The women sit in a circle, talking over each other, each sharing some story about how they could not sleep or stay in their room because of the “screamer.” A few moments pass until each pair of tired, strained eyes is begging me for a solution. “I’ll check in and see if there is anything I can do for her,” I say, still confused as to what is going on. “Better hurry up before I go in and stuff some dirty socks down her throat!” Marnie yells as I walk toward the room.

The nursing home I volunteer at is small compared to its sister facilities. The walls are thin, and the shrieks echo. Residents are rapidly rolling toward the activity hall. Nurses are helping those who cannot help themselves, usually muttering their own noise complaints. I peek into each of the rooms, looking for the source of the chaotic cacophony. Suddenly, a nurse grasps my shoulder.

“What are you doing?” she demands angrily.

“I was looking for the woman who’s screaming.” Our eyes meet. Her kind, blue eyes are glassy with unshed tears. Her frequent fidgeting suggests that she is struggling to find something to say to me.

“Cecilia is very sick right now. Her daughter just left. We cannot get her daughter to come back.”

I must have quite the puzzled look because the nurse immediately attempts to provide an explanation for her previous statement. “It is hard when your own mother doesn’t remember your name. Jasmine came to visit, and Cecilia just did not recognize her. She panicked, shouting that someone was trying to kill her. Jasmine just wanted to give her a hug. Her daughter left in tears.”

The nurse pauses, this time waiting for me to find the words. “Do you think she would mind too terribly if I asked her if she needed anything?”

Now it was the nurse’s turn to look confused. “That’s up to you.”

I thank her and enter Cecilia’s room.

The room is empty. Her roommate, who normally occupied the bed closest to the door, must have abandoned Cecilia when the noise became too much to handle. The walls are bare, with the exception of the occasional stain or crack in the wallpaper. Special care has been taken to ensure that objects were not available for the flailing Cecilia to grab.

“Good morning!” I say with a smile. “Your hair looks very pretty today.”

Cecilia stops crying. Her scared eyes scan the room. I keep my eyes locked on her, watching her long, grey hair shift as she makes the effort to move her head.

“Who….” She croaks, struggling to move her lips to form the words, “… me?”

For the first time, she looks directly at me. Her face radiates a sort of humble warmth as her chapped lips twist themselves into a small smile. She seems so calm, so beautiful with her head tilted slightly sideways and her hands piled on her lap.

“I’ve never seen hair that looks as soft as yours.”

She processes what I said with a look of bewilderment but this time continues to stare at me. The silence is comforting. I had very little to say and even less to offer, yet she seemed to just enjoy my company. She appears, for the first time that day, entirely at peace.

Her mouth again struggles to move, but she succeeds in saying, “Thank… you.” She smiles once more, looking dazed and distracted. The light from the window has stolen her attention, and she has turned her back to me to watch the birds chirp outside.

“You’re welcome. I was wondering if I could get you anything.”

I expect her to hesitate, to remain fixated on the outside world. She does not. Cecilia snaps back toward me and cries, “My daughter.” She breaks down into a sob, tears streaming down her tan cheeks and into her hair.

“She visited earlier today. You mean the world to her. Jasmine visits you every single day.”

This quiets her for a few moments. Cecilia looks down toward her hands, thinking. Then, she begins to question me, demanding to know how it is I know this and why it is she has never seen her daughter. I wait for her to calm down, looking at her with a smile. She gradually begins to quiet down as she shifts her focus to me. Her frustration turns into tears, and, when I can speak and be heard, I tell her what little I know.

“I have been here almost every day of this summer. I walk past your room, peeking in just like I did today, and I always see a woman sitting on this corner of your bed.”

I pause to gesture to the right corner of the bed, careful not to touch her blankets and sheet. Cecilia’s glassy eyes make their way from my face, down my arm, and toward the area of the bed that I am pointing at. The room has gone silent, and I continue.

“She smiles when she looks at you. She offers you some of the food that she brought along with her; usually, she offers you your mother’s oatmeal raisin cookies from that recipe that you gave her and some peanut butter chocolate chip cookies that you used to make with her when she was a child. You can’t help but smile back at her because you know—within those moments—that you are filled with the love of your favorite person: your daughter Jasmine.” I pause for a moment before proceeding.

“She tells you about your grandchildren and the times you spent together. How you used to babysit them and hide coins around your house for them to find. How they laughed so hard that they cried when you took them to see Despicable Me. How you used to have them over every Friday for a sleepover because you wanted your grandchildren to know the family recipes and stories. How you used to spend every moment you could making sure that they knew that they were loved and that you would always be proud of them.”

Cecilia turns herself over on the bed to rummage through her nightstand. She pulls out a picture and shows it to me. “My daughter?” her voice cracks.

“That is you and your daughter on that trip to the park she took you on last Thursday. You said that you wanted to sit beneath the sun and watch the ducks in the pond like you used to do together when Jasmine had a hard day at school.”

She retracts the photo slowly and simply holds it in her hands. I finish:

“In those moments, you both knew that the time you spent together improved both of your lives. You cried together. You smiled together. You laughed together. You both knew that you were a part of each other. You knew that you had raised the best daughter, the best mother, and the best woman you had ever met. You were proud. Every day, she comes and helps you relive those moments for as long as she can because she wants you to feel just as loved as she does.”

I break off, not knowing what else to say. Cecilia is wiping her tears away with her blanket. She opens her arms, and I hug her.

When I walked down the halls and addressed the complaints of the sleepless residents, I hoped to help them understand Cecilia’s condition in the same way I did. I wanted them to see a beautiful woman who serves as a reminder to enjoy the time you have with people.

When I spent time with Cecilia, reminding her of her past, I thought of all of the experiences people have with one another and how they make up a person’s identity. I think we’re all still looking outside Cecilia’s window, imagining ourselves and others in our best moments and trying to be the same person we were then. Oddly enough, this means we’re looking for someone who is already with us; that person we were just a few years before still lives inside all of us and in those we love.