Gotta say bye to grandpa.  I'm wearing his sweater.  That Sheik Abu Khalid Mohammed undershirt was his, too.  He was soft spoken, comical, and stubborn—fiercely independent.  He was a good man.  

He was so tall and stayed with his little green car all these years.  He'd never admit all the little love dings he gave to parked cars.

He stole my beanie the other day when I went to visit him, my cashmere one.  I took it off and noticed it had a couple holes.  He heard me bemoaning the matter, I assumed it was from cigarette burns or moths in the summer heat of the closet.  He looked over at me and said, It has holes in it? and put it over his big dome head.  You don't need it anymore, he said.  I've never heard him yell.

I keep editing this in the room.  I didn't make the gym today and watched what I ate.  I passed by a relative I didn't know on the floor earlier.  This guy kind of looks like me, I better shake his hand.  It would have been awkward if I hadn't.  He walked into my grandpa's room, and we both started eating the spare crackers lying around the room.