A Little To The Left -

He nodded, and his hand found hers.

“A little to the left,” he’d murmur, nudging the stone with his index finger. A Little to the Left

The basket was the problem. Or rather, the contents of the basket. Every evening, after dinner, my grandmother would place a small wicker basket on the coffee table. Inside: the television remote, a pair of reading glasses, a folded dishcloth, and a single, smooth river stone she’d picked up from a beach in Ireland fifty years ago. He nodded, and his hand found hers

One winter, my grandfather fell ill. His hands, which had spent a lifetime adjusting, aligning, and perfecting, lay still on the hospital blanket. The basket stayed on the coffee table at home. No one touched it. Or rather, the contents of the basket

As a child, I found it absurd. “Why doesn’t Grandpa just leave it alone?” I asked once.

My grandmother visited him every day. She read aloud from old newspapers. She brought soup he couldn’t eat. One afternoon, she reached into her coat pocket and pulled out the river stone.