We are just back from a long weekend visiting family and friends in Washington, D.C, New York and Philadelphia. It ended with a visit to my grandmother, Margaret, who turned 97 on Mother’s Day. She opted recently not to have major surgery for an apparently cancerous growth on her neck. This has spared her the pain of surgery, but it also means her time remaining with us is limited. She told me Sunday during a family dinner that she just “hopes it’s not complicated.” Then she changed the subject to ask about Florida; she’s not one to dwell.

Rowan, at 6 months, is too young to register much from the visit. Alexander, who is 2, was aware of much more. As we drove to my grandmother’s assisted-living center Monday morning, Alexander said again and again, “say goodbye to grandma Margaret.” This kind of repetition isn’t unusual for him, but I wondered if he sensed something more. He later told her he loved her. Did he know this visit was different? That it could be, as my father said, the last such weekend with her?

I don’t know. Nor do I know how long my grandmother will be with us. Months, the doctors say. We hope longer. She understands her choice, and is at peace with it. It will be my job to explain that choice to Alexander, and later Rowan. Here’s the truth: I have no idea what to say.