“What?”
“Administrative support for a cardiac rehabilitation program.”
I stared at him.
“You?”
“Yes, me.”
“Do they know what they’re getting into?”
“They seemed optimistic.”
I smiled.
“Why?”
He looked across the lawn.
“I spent a long time thinking the road I didn’t take had disappeared.”
His hand rested on the terrace railing.
“Apparently some roads come back differently.”
That sounded like something Grandpa might have said.
I chose not to mention it.
Dad would have hated that.
Instead I reached into my pocket and handed him the lighter.
He looked at it.
“No.”
“It was his.”
“He gave it to you.”
“And now I’m giving it to you.”
“Why?”
Because objects remember things people forget.
I almost said it.
Instead, I told him the truth.
“Because I don’t need it to know what Grandpa thought of me anymore.”
Dad looked down.
His fingers closed around the old silver case.
Then he nodded.
“Thank you.”
