The entrance of the nursing home smells like dust and old plastic. An old woman with wide eyes smiles nervously at me in the doorway, then turning to face a wall says: 'That's great, isn't it!'. The wall looms dark and silent back at her. The smile dissipates, and the eyes bounce, nervous, ricocheting in their sockets.
I am here to visit the ageing dilapidation that is my grandpa. My dad, grandma and I move past the woman (eyes kept with shame to ourselves) and make our way into the elevator. Ascending, we are nervous. Grandma visibly shakes, whilst dad smiles broadly; his anxiety is not concealed. My link to the elderly is cobwebbed, unused; I am almost completely impartial to my own grandparents; the anxiety I feel stems from other things. Grandmas voice shakes. 'Oh, dear...'