He sat with his wife’s photo, waiting for a son who had already boarded without him

us.

I can still vividly remember his hands—scarred from years of working with wood and machinery—but they were always steady when he turned the pages of The Wind in the Willows for me. As I grew older, however, the visits became fewer and farther between. Dad claimed that Grandpa was getting slower and confusing the children.

Eventually, those precious continue reading …