His steps were hurried, almost clumsy as he moved past the doors and approached my grandma, pausing abruptly at the edge of the bed. Bending down slowly, he took her hand into his own. She didn’t move.

Ma, he called out gently, as if to wake her up. No response. He repeated his call, this time shaking her a little; her eyes remained close, her toothless mouth slightly open. I knelt down beside my dad as he continued to shake her, refusing to believe despite holding her limp body in his arms. I could sense the stubbornness in his actions, irrational and desperate like a child determined to prove everyone wrong. His eyes were glassy, his face flushed red from trying to hold the tears. I bit my lip to keep from sobbing aloud – seeing my calm and grown-up father losing it was heart-wrenching.

Slowly, he gave up, a look of defeat in his tear-stricken face. Lovingly, he clasped her hands together on top of her stomach, and pulled the blanket over her body. I reached over to caress her forehead, grazing her grey hair gently. A fresh flood of tears threatened to fall as I remembered how she used to pat her unruly hair defensively whenever I teased her about her ‘lioness’ hair.

We'll never forget you, Popo.

Her back was aching that day, so we built a pillow tower for her to lean on.

3:53 p.m.