You're very sick. I haven't seen you in almost a year. I know I should go and see you in hospital, because Dad doesn't think you'll be around much longer. He said that if I went, if you knew who I was, you would love me for it. But I just can't bring myself to go. I'm scared of how bad you will be. I don't know what to expect. But I feel bad for not going. I'm your only granddaughter. And I bet the boys have gone to see you. Mum has said I don't have to go. That it's better to remember you the way you were not the way you are now. Papa and Aunty Carolyn agree. But I still feel bad. Because I will probably end up seeing Grandad. If he's still in Dunedin next weekend, I'll probably go down there with Dad. But only because I know that you are worse than him. That he will leave the hospital. You might not. But I do think that it would be better to remember you the way you were. Back when I would walk around in your high heel shoes pretending I was all grown up. Or fishing in the creek even though there weren't any fish in there, only the odd duck. It's those things that I will remember.