Long after I left home, my father bought a black dog. Its belly was partly white, which contrasted with its body. Every time my father opened the door to the garden, the dog would stick out its tongue and wag its tail because it thought they were going for a walk. Now that my father has passed away, I get to walk the dog. As I speak to all the people with whom he used to chat on his walks, I get flashes of memories of my father - and of a side of him I never knew.

My father was a bit plump; he looked grumpy and never laughed much. As time passed, he became smaller and smaller. My father hated being photographed, so I had hardly ever taken pictures of him. By the time we realized he had cancer, it was already in its final stage. I had to pick up my camera.