Three months before my grandfather died, we sat on his back porch as the afternoon sun warmed the wood beneath our chairs. He had a blanket over his knees even though it wasn’t cold. His hands looked thinner than they used to, veins raised like river maps, but his eyes were still sharp.
“They’ve already taken enough from you,” he said.
I tried to laugh it off, like I always did when affection felt too heavy. “Grandpa, don’t start.”
“Let me finish,” he said, and covered my hand with his. His skin was papery, warm, and the gesture pinned me in place.
