One of the main reasons for this French trip, this swim upstream back to the source, was the deadline of going to see my granny before she sinks further into the slowsands of dementia.
She did recognise me. Or rather she did recognise a version of me in her muddled past-cum-present.
Poor Brigitte. She is not in a good place. Physically, she is in as good a place as could be expected, given the circumstances.
But in her mind, she is in distress.
She catches glimpses of her current state.
She can feel herself sinking ever deeper.
And she cannot put it into words.
She cannot demand relief.