Just this morning, I prodded cautiously at the edges of my memory and came up nearly empty. Except for two things. My grandfather’s absolute and undying faith in the power of love and forgiveness, and the fact that in 92 years, he never let anyone take it away from him.
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I can’t seem to stop the slide down into dreamy, nonsensical tangents. The rustling of the sheets. The soft warmth of his skin on mine. The savoriness of him in my mouth. His pathetic shadow of a smile. I wanted to be the girl in the stained-glass window, forever seen in the best light.
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