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The last time I saw my grandfather, he didn't look like himself. Or maybe, he looked like a version of himself I hadn't been given enough time to get used to. That's the strange tax of distance. He lived in Bangalore, and I grew up in Texas, which meant I didn't watch his Parkinson's disease progress the way my cousins did: steadily, incrementally, in the daily way that allows you to adjust. I saw him in intervals. Years apart, sometimes.