We love our gran. She sits in the chair and keeps an eye on all of us. She makes sure we keep the windows shut when it's cold and open when it is warm. We don't mind her telling us what to do. She makes demands, but we made demands of her. She had a household to run for years and years, running around to get meals, ironing clothes, shopping for food and all the rest. She was always there when needed. Now we are there for her. We love our gran, and she loves us too. Down the road is the old people's home. They sit there and stare, waiting to die. It's a far cry from home, with little real love to keep them warm. Some are still lively, but many feel the loneliness deep inside. No-one can ease that inner pain of not being needed, existing for the sake of no-one in particular, left to patiently wither away, time passing slowly with each laborious hour, day after day, night after night in palpable silence. There are thousands huddled in homes away from home, waiting to die. Gran is up to her tricks again, trying to walk when we all know she mustn't in case she should fall, and she will keep telling us what to do. But we really don't mind. We'll be the same one day. Besides, we wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for gran... Why should we send grandparents to death row in homes?