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

remembering was allowed. By spring, the rhythm of life in Holton had settled around me like a second skin. Each morning, I’d wake before the sun, help June make oatmeal, and sit with Grandpa as he slowly stirred his spoon.

Sometimes he would even tell a half-finished story about fishing with his brothers or the time he dropped his wedding ring in a continue reading …