My father died with Alzheimer’s. So did his four siblings. Undiagnosed dementia clouded my grandmother. So once a week I pack paint or collage supplies to a locked ward, and lead a art class with residents with dementia.

I am the person who comes with color and ideas. For one hour, residents can be creative, however they can. If they want to watch, if they fall asleep or walk away, that’s ok too. Making the choice, making art, says “I am here.” Those who paint leave with an echo of time in their hands. The moment is soon forgotten. but remains visible, proof of effort. Often at the end of class, residents start talking, admiring each other’s work.Every class is a journey for me.

This week we made Valentines. It is my favorite class, partly because, as a shy person, I’ve always loved being able to speak with pictures. As always I prepped materials, including “staging:” adding something to the blank paper to focus residents on the work. This week, I glued a doily and a red rectangle on each page - not always in the same place. The goal never is identical work. I printed out love words, romantic stills, and cut out a slew of birds and hearts.

Once brushes and glue came out, the table was quickly covered with supplies. “This is like being a kid again,” observed the woman who once was a physician. “I’ve never done anything like it. It’s hard!”

One quiet resident could not manage glue, so I gave her paint. The busiest resdient filled her picture, studied it, and declared, “That’s too much.” She peeled off several birds. “There, that’s better.”

One new resident, nearly blind, worked hard to make a surprise Valentine for a friend.

The best moment came at the end. A gentleman who’d worked a long time, sorting out the pieces he wanted, finally glued down just two: one heart, one bird. Would he sign his piece? (Some folks have lost the ability to write, but one always offers the chance.) “I think you can do that.,” was his polite response. What would he like the card to say? “MaryJane and Bernie.” After some debate about what to do, he decided. “I’ll take it home now” and disappeared down the hall.

Then he returned. He held my hand. He thanked me. I told him he did the work; he should be proud.

“But this is like nothing else,” he insisted. “You made me tears.”

He pushed a finger under his glasses.

“See?I have water on my eye.”