My grandfather and I drink coffee
on Tuesday morning after my exam.
"Everybody dies," he says. "We're all dying."
He stares out the window at a rough tree,
a crabapple. He seems a small man,
unobtrusive. I say, "Papa, you're lying.
You're just fine." I put a hand on his shoulder,
bumping my teaspoon, which makes a little din.
He smiles and laughs at my assertion.
"You'll start to understand as you get older.
There is a restlessness. When I was in
the army, all I thought about was desertion."
