Grandma’s kids are lined up to vis­it over the next few months, each stay­ing with her a few weeks at a time. An uncle flew in a few days before my dad and I left, and anoth­er aunt has arrived since.

Grandma says the house will be emp­ty when my uncle leaves, com­plete­ly for­get­ting that my aunt who’s already there has giv­en up her life to be with her indef­i­nite­ly. We joke that she’s just anoth­er maid to grand­ma now. Her mem­o­ry remains patchy; some­times she’s lucid, some­times she’s lost.

Leaving was hard. My aunt hugged me long, told me she’d miss me through the lump in her throat, and prompt­ly went to the bed­room to com­pose her­self. Knowing it was the last time I was going to see her, I hugged and kissed my grand­ma as much as I could. It was an effort not to cry. Even the maid wiped a tear from her eye with the back of her hand, but none of the oth­er men did, and I won­der if they would have, had they not been in the pres­ence of oth­er men.

As we were leav­ing, she hand­ed me a red enve­lope, and told us to vis­it her again soon. It was a relief to know that she’s still uncon­scious of her ter­mi­nal con­di­tion, but the reminder that I would nev­er see her again broke my heart.

What a strange feel­ing it is to know that she’s still alive on the oth­er side of the world, while I’m here, unable to be with her. For now, I’m hap­py and relieved that I had the chance to express myself to her, and film her, and cap­ture her image.