"I brought you flowers."

My hands grasp onto the clear purple vase, as I stretch out my arms towards him, hoping he'll take it away from me. He stares at the vase, and the longer his eyes remain where they are, the more I begin to suspect he has fallen asleep.

"Here," I say aloud, hoping he'll hear me, so I wouldn't have to repeat myself even louder. I am so tired of doing that.

His eyes lift up, exposing their pale brown shade, along with the worried gleam inside them. He lifts his shaking hands in attempt to grab the vase, but once he touches it and I let go, the vase drops to the floor, shattering into thousands of pieces and millions of drops of water all over the cream colored tile-floor.

I sigh. I should've placed the vase on the kitchen table. I know better than to think he could've done this on his own. It wasn't his fault – I blame myself. Shaking my head, I hurry to the cupboard, grab a towel, broom and dustpan, then return to the crime scene, praying he hasn't stepped on any of the broken glass while I was gone.

"Here, I'll clean this up," I shout as I watch him stay still, possibly stunned; probably oblivious.

"The light," he murmurs, as I gently dab the towel on the wet floor, keeping away from the glass.

"What?" I ask, even though I know there's no point.

"The light. It's still on," he continues and then slowly walks away to his bedroom, I now understand – to turn off the light which was already off.

"It's already off, grandpa!" I yell as I remain kneeling on the floor, trying very hard not to look up. It's too much.

There is no use in telling him the light was already off, he doesn’t remember. And that’s okay, because, after all, he is 91 today.

Caving in to my emotions and to my aching will for him to remember that the light has been off since last night when he went to bed, I glance up at him, only to see him playing with the light switch, not understanding why the light keeps appearing. I rise up from the floor, walk briskly over to him and gently touch his arm, hoping not to startle him.

"Grandpa, it's off," I say, but am soon incorrect, since he flicks the switch once more. He stays focused on the switch, until he suddenly stops. He looks at me, his mouth slightly opened. The second he blinks, I know; he is gone. One simple blink, much like erasing one's memory, I often assume is the case. It’s a far more intriguing explanation than getting old.

Eventually, I manage to convince him to sit at the kitchen table, as I dry and sweep the rest of the floor, a distance of only a few quick steps; just in case. He watches me, so I think, then soon enough realize he is simply spacing out. I shouldn't be insulted – cleaning a floor isn't so thrilling. As soon as I finish, I take the undamaged flowers, roll them in paper towel to dry them off, and I hand them to him. He stares at me, once again with his magical eyes; round and small, like little pennies, only worth so much more. He takes the flowers, and this time I let go after I am positive he is grasping onto the stems of the pink, orange and purple flowers, a present I bought for him earlier this morning on my way to his home.

He loves flowers. It's wrong to think only men should give women flowers, and even more wrong to have them being exchanges only between lovers. If my grandpa had given me flowers for my birthday, I would know it was special, because they mean so much to him. That's why I did it. As I paid for them a few hours ago, I assumed he'd forget about them tomorrow. I figured he'd wake up the next morning and not understand where they came from. But I still hoped deep inside, I nearly prayed for him to remember.

"Do you like them?" I asked my voice getting louder with each word.

He smiles. My heart begins to melt. He is enjoying the flowers. He likes them. No, he loves them! Now he can look at them all he wants. And it is all thanks to me. I couldn't be happier that I stopped by. Seeing him smile is possibly the most relaxing thing I have witnessed. I slowly reach out my hand over to his to hold it – an attempt to make a pleasant moment perfect.

He hurries to jerk his hand away from mine, now giving me an angry glare. My eyes expand, my heart is pounding. No, no, no. I beg to myself. Please. Not today.

"What do you want?!" he yells, every word causing a deeper heartache than before. It isn't only an emotional one, but a physical one as well. My heart is hurting, and the more seconds that pass, the worse it'll get.

"Grandpa…" I say with a raised voice, while the one inside my head is whimpering in agony.

"Go away! Go to your home!" he shouts, finally saying the words I had known were coming all along. It is only a matter of time; that is all.

I don't cry. I can't. My heart is full of rage, but I can't release it at anyone but myself. I briefly imagine a conversation between us, where I explain who I am and quickly calm him down, but I am too afraid to try. I can't bear the far more likely conversation – the one where he keeps yelling at me to leave until I do. The one where he doesn't recognize my name, even when I repeat it over and over, with tears rolling down my face. The one where he forgets me.

I quickly get up from my seat and take a few steps until I reach the door. I hold onto the doorknob, and before I turn it to leave, I look down.

The words 'Happy Birthday' run through my mind, but I don't say them aloud. I know if I do, I won't be able not to cry. Instead, I open the door and close it behind me, not even glancing back at him, the way I usually do every time I leave his home. This time, I no longer wish for him to suddenly return to his grandpa-like self. I don't wish for things that can’t come true anymore.

Most girls experience their first heartbreak during their teenage years, around my age, and the only way they get over it is by crying their eyes out and by moving on. I didn't have that privilege. Because that day, the day of my grandpa's 91st birthday – that was the first time someone broke my heart. And moving on is not an option when it's your grandpa who did the breaking. You can't move on from your grandpa. You can't leave him in the past and keep living. You can't forget family. Unless you’re 91.