My grandad doesn’t do the gardening any more like he used to. He doesn’t go to the pub and come home when the sky is black, with only the moon to guide him.

Grandad doesn’t get up early on a Saturday morning like Ms Ellis does from across the road with her multicoloured trolley on her way to the market before the parents wake up and crowd the streets with their screaming kids.

He doesn’t offer my friends sweets when they come over, and he doesn’t sit with us at the table even when Mum cooks his favourite Jamaican dish, curry goat and rice and peas.

Sometimes when people come round to visit, they whisper in Mum’s ear, ‘What’s wrong with Patrick, is he OK?’ and Mum will tell them to be quiet because he’s not deaf, he can hear everything.

It’s a perfectly normal question to ask, what’s wrong with my grandad, because he doesn’t move from that chair except to go to the toilet or go to bed. He doesn’t turn his head left or right when you call him, or when our dog

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