It’s the last few days of Nanna’s life. I’m sitting on the armrest of her cushioned chair that hasn’t been used in who-knows how many months. There are solar-powered, bobbing figurines on the windowsill. Cheery, dusty, a smiling sunflower dancing in the rays of sunshine. Out the window I can see a familiar, tall pine tree, and I know the Frankston beach is just beyond it.

I’ve been avoiding looking at her, but that’s how I dealt with Nanna long before this. I only just started to see the woman she was, and a short time after her mental decline began, quite rapidly.

This is reality.

I’m half-way through my business degree. Mum seems pretty proud to tell nanna that. Nanna says “yeah”, “oh”, “really?”, seemingly on repeat. It seems more of a habitual response, or maybe it’s her brain trying to engage in the conversation, but only able to go so far.

I’m getting into the Vee Arr. Mum tries to explain. I take over. I hate it when people talk about things they don’t understand.

In the future, we’ll all have computers in our glasses, nanna. I put my fingers to my face in a kind of owl-mask-spectacles.

She didn’t say “Really?”

I knew as soon I mentioned future. Even deep inside her demented eyes I could see it register. Perhaps a tiny tear formed. It’s a future she won’t see.

I think I’ve found the wonderful technology that will revolutionise how we interact with computers. I’ve been at home, writing code for magical swords, and at university, writing marketing plans for augmented reality esports. I think I’ve discovered my calling.

I know that this moment, with my hands to my face, describing a future vision, is a powerful memory that will stay with me the rest of my life.

Really.