Grandad is dying. His skin grows too big and slowly sinks towards the floor. He lies fading in his hospital bed, drifting out of consciousness.

It has his oesophagus, his liver and kidneys, the lining of his brain. It destroys every cell. Fighting makes him too weak to open his eyelids. His body succumbs.

I spend a week storing the happiest details of my life. The parties, the friendships. Nothing about loneliness or arguments; he is already heavy with grief.

I tell him good things and it sounds like I am giving a presentation. He struggles; listening is an effort. I wonder if it's worth it.

But of course it's better than lying there so alone; unable to speak properly because your mouth muscles dither by your chin like they have come untied. I tell him the ingredients of my meal last night and that I could do with a new coat.

He tells me they don't let him go to the toilet alone any more.

What can I do for Grandad when old age is too soon?

I smile.

That smile says, 'I love you, and I'll pretend, along with you, that we've still got forever'.

-

'Your Grandad is permanently asleep now'.

There will always be an empty chair, at the head of the table, on a Sunday evening.

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