I never know what to say to my grandmother when she speaks about her own death. I pretend not to hear, or I change the course of the conversation to entertain her and especially to help myself to escape from it as well. I go and visit her every Sunday in the “Happy days”, the old people home’s where she now lives. As soon as I pass the door, I look down so not to have to confront the staring by the old women. Hidden behind my camera, as if I was wearing a mask, I go to meet Lea, Berlinska, Lilly, Bella, and the others. You, cute witches with wrinkled faces, you are obviously not expecting me with that cup of tea in your hand, impatient to tell me about your memories. No, you are crabby and indifferent to my interest in you. I have to win your confidence and every story you deign to tell me is like a present that I have to drag out of you. You remind me of my own fears without any indulgence. How can one think about getting old as well?