In celebration of your victory in the battle against illness.

not really. more like defeat. under the doctor's instructions for his children to let my grandfather do whatever he wants to. hence, this dinner (probably the last) where everyone shall gather, even those grown-up cousins that we hardly see anymore. we managed to only fill 3 tables, i'm sure there's more. One really do shrink when suffering from cancer, like i read: In her face every bit of skull visible where the flesh ahd gone, leaving only the clear outlines of the understructure, the yawning Os of the eye sockets, the sharp peaks of the cheekbones, the hinge of jaw, from which all the padding had disappeared. She pulled me closer and I could feelher body like sticks in a bag, the slightness of her now, her ribs like some fragile musical instrument beneath my hands. It's really painful to see, he was so small and tiny and you'd think any movement would break him. My dad and uncle did get him to the so-called resturant in one piece anyway, only to see him complaining to leave halfway through the course. Family dinners are indeed painful affairs, especially those which has become meaningless. everyone stares into air, quiet, the children have less pain, staring at the tv. everyone dying for the next dish to come so that at least they could talk about the food. The card displayed on the table ' in celebration of your victory in the battle against illnesses ' was kept after he left for home, my aunt's effort to write that herself wasted. Looking at my grandfather, I think no one working there or eating there would have fell for it anyway.