My mother was 88 when she fell at home and landed in the extended care bed beside Jean's and kitty-corner from Allison's. I took my photograph of Roco and my drawing supplies and sat beside her. She slept most of the time, but Jean and Allison were more vigorous and chatty. They watched Roco take shape as the days passed.

Jean told me she used to have a dog. From a photo album in the drawer in a small cupboard in the small space she lived in, Jean pulled a tiny photograph of her much-loved and long-dead dog, Jerome. I told her if she trusted me with the photograph, I would draw a picture of him and bring it back to her in a few weeks.

'I might not be here in a few weeks,' said Allison from her corner of the room. 'I'm hoping to go home.' And then, after a pause. 'But I'll probably still be here.'

'I might not be here, either,' said Jean. 'If this blood clot in my leg breaks loose, I'm a goner.' But she gave me the photograph. I found another photograph of a bull-terrier that I thought looked a little bit like her dog, hooked the two together and came up with what I hoped would be Jerome, full of life and happy, the way she remembered him.

I brought the photograph and the portrait back to her three weeks later, framed so she could hang it on the wall beside her bed. She looked at it, hugged it to her chest and said, "Oh! My Jerome!'