Honey, Lorraine is a lamb.”

My grandmother was sitting in a wingback chair by a window in a lavender cardigan, and her hair was beautiful.

That is what I noticed first, before her face, before anything.

Her hair was set — actually set, soft white waves, done properly, the way nobody’s hair is done in a memory care unit on an ordinary Thursday.

She looked up when I came in, and her whole face opened.

“Neenie,” she said, delighted.